


A Day In The Life

by BuckyWithTheGoodHair86



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Family, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Returns, Bucky Barnes and the 21st Century, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Day Off, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Fluff, Feel-good, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Hugs, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, No Slash, Protective Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 97,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckyWithTheGoodHair86/pseuds/BuckyWithTheGoodHair86
Summary: Take one amnesiac ex-assassin, America's Greatest Hero, and one over-worked counselor who's just trying to bring these old guys into the 21st Century. Place in one New York apartment. Allow for down time from saving the world. Blend well. Allow to cool. Season with humor, fluff and h/c to taste.
Comments: 77
Kudos: 203





	1. Just Call Me Mom

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Okay, so, this is the first time I've ever written something this AU that isn't a crossover. I just, I like my stuff to be canon, you know? Or as close to it as I can get. Anyway, I've always thought it would be fun to see something that's just the domestic side of being an Avenger. What do they do on their days off? How did Steve learn how to use the internet? Does Bucky know what a toaster is? Stuff like that. To be honest, I'd watch a day-in-the-life style movie if they made one. I'd be all over that.
> 
> The premise here is that Bucky went on the run after Winter Soldier, but after five or six months or so, came and found Steve. Steve and Sam are helping him get his life back on track, and the three of them share an apartment in New York. The other Avengers will pop in and out.
> 
> The chapters are one-shots, not happening chronologically, just in the order they occur to me. They'll be mostly fluffy, but there will probably be some h/c and angst from time to time, because it's Bucky. Poor guy's had it rough. I'm open to slash-free suggestions for chapters.
> 
> Sadly, they're not my boys. Property of Marvel, Disney, etc.

* * *

Sam shut his eyes and threw his head back in a prayer for patience. Going to a baseball game had seemed like a good idea at the time. Part of the whole help-Bucky-adjust-to-civilian-life-by-doing-stuff-he-used-to-like thing that he and Steve had been trying. Which, all things considered, had been working pretty well. And the baseball game…okay, the game itself had been good. They'd even, by some freakish stroke of luck, found a morning game, which, a) was how they did it back in the 40's, and b) meant they didn't have to be out dealing with weekend nightlife, which Bucky still found overwhelming.

What he hadn't counted on, though, was weekend traffic. Even on foot, the crowds were horrendous. It had taken for _ever_ to get from the stadium back to the subway. At which point they found out the station was closed for repairs, and it was a long walk to the next one. It was the middle of the afternoon. It was _hot_. There were way too many people around, and lunch felt like a long time ago. Sam's good mood from earlier had evaporated, and, to tell the truth, he was a little surprised Barnes hadn't punched anyone yet.

"Watch it!" Bucky snapped at some kid on his phone who'd walked right into his back.

The kid looked up, bored. "Quit blocking the sidewalk, would ya?" he replied.

"Okay," Sam said, pulling the kid to the side and giving him a push to keep going as Bucky snarled. "Eyes where you're walkin', kid. Go on."

The kid rolled his eyes, looked back at his phone, and moved on. "You good?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at Bucky.

This time, it was Bucky rolling his eyes. "Fine," he snapped. "What? I wasn't gonna hit him."

"Didn't say you were," Sam replied. He looked around. "Where's Steve?"

Bucky nodded up ahead. Sam followed his gaze until he found a familiar blond head. Looked like he'd missed the thing with the kid and kept going, and with as fast as he walked, he was already half a block ahead. Sam shook his head—was it too much to ask that the old people he somehow ended up chaperoning stay in a group?

Bucky growled and stumbled as someone bumped him hard enough to knock him off balance.

"Okay," Sam said again, pulling off his backpack and kneeling to open it. "Take a few breaths, man. Don't need you getting cranky in a big crowd like this."

"Wh—" Bucky huffed. "I'm not cranky."

Sam paused in his rummaging through the backpack to shoot him a quick look. "Dude, you just growled at an old lady. You're cranky. Here." He tossed something at Bucky who instinctively raised his hands to catch it.

"What…" Bucky looked at the plastic package in his hands, then glared at Sam. "I'm not a child, Wilson," he snapped.

"No," Sam said calmly. "You're a ninety-nine-year-old former Russian assassin whose blood sugar's gettin' a little low. Eat the fruit snacks."

Bucky continued to glare, but moved to open the package. Steve chose that moment to reappear and popped up over his shoulder. "Whatcha got?" he asked, eyeing his friend's hands. "Ooh!" He looked up at Sam. "You got any more?" he asked hopefully.

Sam rolled his eyes, but pulled another pack of snacks from his bag and tossed it to Steve, who caught it with a grin and tore into it happily. Bucky was refusing to meet Sam's eyes but was smirking in spite of himself. Sam shook his head. "When did I become the mom of this dysfunctional circus?" he asked.

Steve was focused on his snack and wasn't listening, but Bucky snickered at the comment.

The next morning, Sam woke up at his usual time and opened his bedroom door to find a tray on the floor with fresh coffee, bacon and eggs. A pink square of paper propped against the coffee mug read _Moms enjoy breakfast in bed, right?_ Underneath the message was a glittery unicorn sticker.

Apparently the mom thing wasn't going anywhere any time soon. And where in the hell had Barnes gotten a unicorn sticker from? Sam shrugged. At least it came with free food.


	2. The Kool-Aid Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Not too much depth to this one. Inspired by Tumblr. Also, I could have sworn the shark on Sharkleberry Finn Kool-Aid rode a skateboard, not a surfboard. Was that just me?

* * *

Sam came in from his evening run, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "I beat the pizza guy?" he asked, walking into the kitchen.

"Nope," Bucky said from the counter, barely visible from Sam's vantage point behind a stack of pizza boxes. It took a lot of pizza to feed two super soldiers.

"It just got here," Steve said. "Grab a plate."

Pizza and movie night had quickly become a facet of modern life that Bucky and Steve had happily accepted. Sam pretended he didn't see the little notebook Steve used to take notes during the movies in his attempt to decipher pop culture references. Bucky seemed content just to get lost in the stories. As for Sam, everything they'd watched so far was something he'd already seen, but he was getting a surprising amount of joy just watching the two of them watch everything for the first time.

"Alright," Sam said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "We got pizza, we got garlic bread, we got soda, we got…Whatcha makin'?" Bucky was stirring something red in a pitcher.

"Kool-Aid," he replied, pulling out the spoon and tapping it on the edge.

Sam blinked. "Kool-Aid?" He hadn't been expecting that.

Bucky shrugged and poured himself a glass. "Yeah. Saw it in the store, thought it might be fun. We used to make it when we were kids." He took a sip, and for a moment, a little smile sparkled in his eyes—the one that meant he was in a good place, and Sam saw Steve noticing it and grinning. Bucky set down his glass and poured another that he handed to Steve.

"Just like Ma used to make," Steve said after taking a taste.

"Yeah, except your ma never let you have the red kind after that one time you spilled it on the sofa," Bucky smirked.

Steve grimaced. "Yeah, that wasn't pretty. We didn't manage to get it out, did we?"

"No. And me trying to help got me whipped for it too. You know his mother hit me with a spoon?" he said, turning innocent eyes to Sam.

Sam chuckled. "Oh, I would have paid to see that. So, wait, they had Kool-Aid back in your day?"

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "You know, I was gonna offer you a glass, Wilson, but now you're gonna have to come get your own," he said, moving away from the pitcher.

Sam chuckled and Steve shook his head. "Yes, we had Kool-Aid. Like six flavors, but still."

"You should have seen him trying to pick a flavor in the store," Bucky said, nodding at Steve.

"There are _way_ too many now," Steve insisted.

"Yeah, you guys probably had just the boring flavors, right?" Sam asked, searching the cabinet for a cup. "Orange, grape, stuff like that?"

"Well, there was cherry, which is what we went with," Steve said, gesturing at the pitcher. "Uh, something green…"

"Lemon-lime," Bucky said with a shudder. "Blech."

"Yeah, I think people still don't like that one," Sam agreed, pouring himself a glass. "We've got some cool flavors now, though. All those exotic fruit mixes, berry blast, raspberry lemonade, Sharkleberry Finn…"

Bucky and Steve both looked at him suspiciously. "You're making that up," Steve said.

"No!" Sam insisted. "It's like a pink fruit punch kind of thing. Got a shark on a skateboard or something on the front." Neither of them looked convinced. Sam sighed. "It was a 90's thing. You really had to be there for the 90's. They still make the flavor, though. Stop looking at me like that, Barnes."

It had been a while since Sam had had Kool-Aid, and he brought the glass to his lips, ready for a wave of nostalgia. He took a sip, choked, and just managed to swallow. "What the hell is this?" he demanded.

"What?" Steve and Bucky both looked confused.

"What is wrong with this Kool-Aid?"

They both took an experimental sip. Bucky shrugged. "Tastes fine to me," Steve said.

"Wh—?" Sam spluttered. "No. This is like water, and…and sadness. How much sugar did you put in this?"

"Um," Bucky looked thoughtful. "About a quarter of a cup. Did I do it wrong?" This last was addressed to Steve, with that lost-puppy look he got when he had trouble remembering things.

"No," Steve assured him quickly. "No, that's how we always did it."

Bucky looked relieved, but Sam rolled his eyes. Yes, he was supposed to be the sensitive counselor one, but you had to draw your lines somewhere. "No. No. This is…" He shook his head and dumped his drink out in the sink. "I've tried to be nice with your weird 40's food things, with the, with the boiled vegetables and you." He pointed an accusing finger at Steve. "With all the stuff in the Jell-O."

"I like Jell-O," Bucky put in.

"Hush," Sam replied. "But this is too much. This is a disgrace to the name of Kool-Aid." He grabbed the sugar container and snatched up the measuring cup they kept inside, using it to dump most of a cup of sugar into the pitcher.

Steve's eyes widened. "That's…" he began as Sam picked up the spoon and started stirring vigorously. "That's a lot of sugar."

"You two are seriously worse than my grandma. You know the Depression's been over for, like, eighty years now, right? We can afford sugar. And they're not rationing it any more either. We've got enough to treat this Kool-Aid right," Sam informed them, pouring himself a glass of the re-sweetened liquid. "Ah," he said with a sigh of satisfaction. " _This_ is what Kool-Aid should taste like."

The two super-soldiers eyed the pitcher warily. Bucky looked at Steve, shrugged, then got a second glass and poured himself a small amount. "That," he said with a grimace after taking a swallow. "Is like drinking syrup."

"Philistine," Sam replied, shaking his head.


	3. Little Boy Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Look! I made it two whole chapters before succumbing to Sad Bucky. Don't worry, there's fluff here too. And he'll be happy again later. This one was inspired by that scene in Political Animals where TJ is sitting out on the curb in the rain with no shoes and waiting for his brother to come pick him up. How could that not inspire Sad Bucky, really?

* * *

Steve woke up to the vibrating of his phone on his bedside table. It wasn't the annoying emergency-come-to-the-tower tone that Tony had programmed in and he couldn't figure out how to get rid of. He blinked blearily at the screen, wondering who was calling him at 3:30 in the morning. "H'lo?" he rasped.

"Steve?"

"Bucky?" Steve asked, sitting up, suddenly wide awake. Bucky sounded…worried. Steve jumped to his feet and crossed the hall. Bucky wasn't in his room. The window was open. "Where are you?"

"I don't…I don't know," Bucky said softly. Scratch worried. Bucky sounded _scared_.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked, rushing back to his room, grabbing for socks, shoes, a shirt. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Bucky said again. "I need…Steve, can you come get me?"

"Already on my way," Steve replied, grabbing his jacket on his way out the door, fishing in the pocket for the keys to Sam's car he hadn't returned yet. "Are you okay?" he asked again, taking the stairs three at a time. "Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so," Bucky said. He didn't sound sure.

"Okay," Steve said. "Okay. I'm on my way. You said you don't know where you are?"

"No."

"What's around you? Tell me what you see." He started the engine, shoving the driver's seat back.

"Um," Bucky started. "I'm at a pay phone." His voice sounded a little shaky. "There's, um, I think there's a hooker across the street." He huffed a nervous laugh. "She's looking at me like she wants to throw something at me."

"What about buildings?" Steve asked gently.

"Oh, yeah, um…" He could hear Bucky pause as he looked around. "There's a flower shop. And a pizza place. Cal's, I think is what it says. And one of those all-night newspaper places with cigarettes and those shrink-wrapped sandwiches called Omar's. It's yellow. The lady in there wouldn't let me use the phone, but she said she'd give me a quarter for the payphone if I'd go away."

"Okay," Steve said. He'd driven past there before. It wasn't too far away. "Okay, I know where that is. I'll be there in ten minutes, alright?"

"Okay," Bucky said quietly. "Hurry?" he whispered.

The line crackled to static before Steve could respond. Bucky's quarter must have run out. "On my way, man," he promised, gunning the engine.

He got there in seven minutes. Bucky was sitting on the damp sidewalk next to the payphone. He wasn't wearing shoes or a shirt, and his arms were folded up between his chest and his knees as he rocked back and forth in an attempt to stay warm, his bare feet stretched out into the street. The glare of the streetlight above him was glinting off his metal arm. Steve pulled to a stop beside him, but Bucky didn't look up. He threw the door open and rounded the front of the car.

"Bucky?"

His friend looked up at him with wild, red-rimmed eyes. His hair was damp and sticking out in every possible direction. Had he been out here when it was raining? "Steve?" He didn't sound sure at first, blinking up into the semi-darkness.

"Yeah, Buck, I'm here," Steve said, swallowing down the worried tightness in his throat and moving further into the light.

"Steve," he said shakily, managing a small smile as he pushed himself to his feet and flung his arms around his friend. Steve returned the embrace, as much to offer comfort as to keep him upright. His bare skin was like ice.

"Geez, Bucky, you're freezing," Steve said. Bucky didn't say anything, just hunched in a little closer to Steve. Being cold took his head to bad places, and understandably so. Steve was a little surprised he was talking at all and not completely shut down, but he'd take what he could get. "Here, hang on a second." He pushed Bucky carefully away and pulled his jacket off his shoulders. As he did, he scanned the area. No one around, nothing that appeared threatening…Bucky appeared to have gotten here on his own two feet, which was concerning in its own way, but at least he wasn't going to have to fight anyone.

"Better?" Steve asked, slipping his jacket around Bucky's shoulders. It hung a little loose on him, but Bucky just grabbed the extra material and tugged it tighter around him. He nodded.

"Thanks," he said softly.

Steve tugged him back into a hug. "Okay." He patted him on the back. He wasn't really sure where to go from here. Bucky was still shivering, so Steve decided the best course of action was to get him home and get him warmed up. He directed him to the car, steering him around the dirty puddles on the pavement. Once he was in, Steve rounded the car and slipped back into the driver's seat, starting up the engine and turning on the heat.

Steve started for home, glad there was no traffic at this time of night so he could keep most of his attention on Bucky. Bucky stared out the window the whole way. They got home without incident and Steve got him into the elevator and then the apartment with no argument. Once they got there, Bucky stood in the hallway staring blankly ahead.

"You wanna go change into something dry?" Steve asked, eyeing Bucky's pajama pants, damp with rain and muddy at the bottom. Bucky got like this sometimes—that far away, waiting-for-instructions look like he had now. It happened after his bad flashbacks, and it broke Steve's heart every single time. He was always careful never to sound like he was giving orders—Bucky would do whatever he told him to when he was this way, and it made Steve sick to his stomach. He was careful with his words and his tone because if Bucky was flashing back to being the Winter Soldier, he wanted him to hear something different, something that sounded like home and reminded him that he got to choose now and that he was free, that he was safe. And maybe it was just his imagination, but Steve thought it pulled him back faster.

Bucky kept staring straight ahead for a few seconds, then gave a little half-nod and walked to his room. Steve moved to the kitchen to make coffee—decaf—keeping an eye on the hallway. Bucky returned just as the coffee was finishing. He still wasn't wearing a shirt.

Steve held up a mug, offering it to Bucky, then set it down on the end table. He grabbed the first aid kit from the bathroom, swung by his room to grab a few things, then made his way back to the living room, grabbing his own cup on the way. Bucky was still standing in the doorway.

Steve sat on one end of the couch, quirking an inviting eyebrow at his friend. "You can sit down if you want," Steve said. A moment to consider, then Bucky sat down at the other end. Steve passed him the coffee cup and Bucky took it, though he didn't make eye contact with Steve. "Is it okay if I take a look at your feet?" he asked.

Bucky blinked and stared down at his feet for a long minute. Then he slowly pivoted on the couch so that he was facing Steve, pulling his feet up onto the cushion between them. He returned his attention to his coffee.

Steve moved over and pulled one of Bucky's feet up to rest on his thigh. Once he had cleaned the dirt off, he cleaned out all the cuts he'd gotten from walking who knows how far without his shoes. He put a band-aid over one of the larger cuts that he had to pick a piece of glass out of. Bucky's skin was still too cold, so he picked up one of the socks he'd brought from his room and slipped it over the treated foot. He repeated the process with the other one.

When he was done, he patted Bucky's leg, and Bucky pulled his feet off of Steve's lap, drawing his knees up to his chest. "Thanks," he whispered.

"You're welcome," Steve said warmly, glad that he was talking again. "You still cold?" Bucky nodded, and Steve pulled a sweatshirt from the pile of things he'd brought from his room.

Bucky set down his coffee cup and scooted over to take the hoodie. He was a little clumsy getting it on, but Steve didn't move to help. He wanted to, but Bucky would have gotten mad about being treated like a child.

"Better?" he asked when Bucky finally got his arms through the sleeves.

"A little," Bucky said. "Did I hurt anybody?" he asked quietly.

"No," Steve rushed to assure him. There had been no trail of destruction to follow on his way to his friend, no flashing lights or sirens or any indication that anything was wrong. Something twisted in his stomach as he wondered how deep the flashback had gone. Had he gone all the way back to the Winter Soldier, however briefly? That hadn't happened since he came home. Steve was hoping it never would.

Bucky looked over at Steve, squinting as he studied his face. "I…" What he saw with his eyes wasn't matching up with whatever he saw in his head. "I didn't hurt you." It was almost a question.

"No, Buck, you didn't."

"And Sam? Wait." Bucky pushed himself up on the couch to scan the living room and kitchen. "What about Sam? Where is he? I—"

"You didn't hurt Sam either," Steve said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "He's in his room. He's asleep."

"No, but I…I threw…I tore one of his wings off, Steve, he—"

"That was almost a year ago," Steve reminded him gently. "That fight on the helicarrier, Sam made it to the ground okay. And then you saved my life, you remember that?" he added, realizing those injuries were what Bucky was looking for on his face.

"You were in the river…"

"That's right, and you pulled me out."

Bucky nodded slowly, his eyes distant. "You're okay," he said slowly, like he was trying to convince himself. "And Sam…I didn't hurt Sam. And I didn't hurt anyone else?" he asked as if he was afraid to hear the answer.

"You didn't hurt anybody," Steve said firmly. "You just ran off, that's all. You remember that?"

"Maybe?" He sighed, face reddening. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Steve said. He moved a little closer so that he was sitting next to Bucky. Bucky was still shivering, and super-soldier metabolism meant Steve had a lot of body heat to share. "It's okay."

Bucky leaned against him, accepting the offer of warmth, embarrassed about his memory lapse and whatever had sent him out into the night, but not enough to shut down and shut himself in his room, which was good. This was progress.

"You wanna talk about it?" Steve offered. He wanted to know—he always wanted to know—but half the time, Bucky didn't want to share. Sam had had a long conversation with Steve about not pushing him—"Let him know you're safe, but don't force him to open up, or he never will." Sometimes, it was really hard to listen to the counselor. But he did.

Bucky sighed. For a minute, he didn't say anything. "I had a nightmare. I don't…I don't remember what it was about. But I don't always remember everything I've gotten back when I wake up." He made a fist with his flesh hand and pressed it into his eye, scrunching up his face. "I just…I don't know where my head was, and I didn't know where I was, and I had to get out. I think I went down the fire escape."

"You did," Steve confirmed. "I didn't hear a thing."

"Master assassin, remember?" Bucky said, a small smile in his voice. "You don't hear me if I don't want you to."

Steve chuckled. This was starting to sound like one of Bucky's regular flashbacks (which were, thankfully, starting to come farther apart). Maybe a little more intense than normal, but not some scary new problem he'd been starting to worry about. This was just the first time—as far as he knew—that one had happened at night. He had nightmares, sure, but flashbacks were usually a waking occurrence, and usually either he or Sam were around and were able to keep an eye on him until he came back around.

Bucky shuddered and nestled closer in to Steve's side, and Steve reached up and grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch, tugging it over him. "I just," Bucky started, shifting a little more to get comfortable. "I just had to get out, but once I did, it was dark, and, and, _different_ , and I didn't know where to go. Everything just felt _wrong_ , and when things went wrong, I was supposed to scrub the mission and go in, but I didn't want to go in because when things went wrong, they would hurt me to make sure I got it right next time, but I couldn't find the base and I was getting scared because the longer I avoided going in when I messed up, the more they'd hurt me, and it was so cold and I didn't want to go back in the ice again, they always put me in the ice and I don't want to go in the ice, I don't like it there, I can't—Steve don't let them put me back, please, I don't want to go in the ice again, I can't—"

"Whoa, Bucky, whoa, easy," Steve soothed, wrapping his arms around the panicking soldier, blanket and all. "It's okay. It's okay, you're not going back in the ice. I will never let them hurt you again, and you're never going back in the ice, you hear me?"

Bucky was breathing like he was sprinting uphill. "I'm not?" he managed to whisper. Scared. Hopeful.

"Never," Steve assured him. "You're safe now, remember? Look around." Bucky lifted his head and Steve reached up a hand to brush his still-damp hair out of his eyes. "You got away from Hydra, remember? You're not with them. You're not in Siberia. You're in our apartment, on the couch, with me. Those are my shoes over there that you're always grumbling at me to stop leaving in the living room. That's Sam's favorite coffee cup on the table. That's your stack of books by the armchair that you're trying to read through to catch up on twentieth century literature, and that's your laundry basket next to it, which I'm pretty sure makes you a hypocrite for complaining about my shoes."

Bucky was still breathing quickly, but his eyes were following Steve's words around the room. So Steve kept going.

"That's my sketchpad on the table. Sam's laptop in the other chair. Clint showed you how to change the background, and you keep changing it to pictures of that little pony cartoon to mess with Sam. That's the bowl of popcorn from earlier tonight when we watched the ballgame. You kept throwing popcorn at the side of my head."

"You started it," Bucky grumbled softly.

Steve grinned. "That's the plant that Nat gave us as a housewarming present," he continued. "We put little lights on it last month for Christmas. And these are the socks you gave me," he added, reaching down to pat Bucky's feet. "Sam said socks were such an old lady present, but I've seen him wearing the ones you gave him with the birds on them at least twice a week. That's the fridge that Sam keeps pulling magnets off of to try to stick to your arm. That's the toaster that you set on fire. This is your life, Bucky. The one where you're safe and free and where Hydra will never touch you again. Remember?"

Bucky nodded against his shoulder. "Yeah," he whispered. "I'm sorry I forget sometimes."

Steve tugged him closer for a hug. "It's okay. I wish everything could be okay for you all at once. I really do—more than anything. But it's gonna take time, and that's totally okay. That's how it works. And nobody's upset with you for forgetting things, and nobody ever will be."

Bucky snorted. "You sound like Sam."

Steve laughed. "That so bad?"

"I guess not. Bird-boy usually knows what he's talking about. Even if he does keep trying to stick magnets on my arm."

"Did you just admit Sam was right?"

"Not where he could hear me."

Steve chuckled. "Well, I'm glad you agree. Because he _is_ right. And if you forget, I'll be right here to remind you. Every time."

Bucky shifted on the cushion next to him. "That could be a long fight, man," he said softly.

"Well," Steve started. Bucky still struggled with the idea that he was worth fighting for. Steve refuted that every chance he got. "If I remember right, I'm too stupid to back down from a fight." He heard a soft laugh from somewhere behind Bucky's hair. "So, I guess I'm in it for the long haul."

A moment of silence. Then, softly, "thanks, punk."

"You're welcome, jerk." He picked up his coffee and leaned back against the cushion. Bucky leaned with him, not willing to let the warmth he was offering escape. "You good?"

A long sigh. "I guess."

"You don't have to be, you know," Steve reminded him.

"No, I know, I just…" He sighed again. "I remember everything now, or, at least, everything I remembered yesterday, which probably isn't _actually_ everything. But I'm back. I feel really stupid, but I'm here, so…"

"Nothing you did tonight was stupid, Buck."

Bucky snorted. "I went outside—in the rain—in my pajamas and I didn't take any shoes. I got scared of the dark and I got lost ten blocks from our apartment and had to call you to come get me and now I'm wearing your giant hoodie and I feel like a kid in his dad's clothes."

Steve suppressed a chuckle at the mental image Bucky's last words conjured. He _was_ still kind of skinny.

"I'd call that stupid," Bucky finished. Between the blanket and the hair, Steve couldn't see much of him at the moment, but what little he saw of his face was red.

"I wouldn't," Steve said simply. "I'd call it confused. Processing. Or…your brain sorting through decades of trauma without consulting you on appropriate timing. But not stupid."

Bucky huffed a soft laugh. " _Now_ you sound like Sam."

Steve huffed a laugh and patted Bucky on the shoulder, shifting a little to get more comfortable. "No one thinks you're stupid," he said, willing his friend to believe it. "You work your way through this thing however you can. We're here for you. _I'm_ here for you."

Bucky was quiet for a minute. "Of all the people to have in my corner," he said at last. "I couldn't've have picked anyone better." He yawned, and Steve smiled. Bucky usually crashed not long after a flashback, and it looked like this one was coming on fast. "Thanks, Stevie," he said, patting Steve's knee.

Steve smiled and squeezed his shoulder, stifling a yawn of his own. When Sam came in two hours later to get a drink before his morning run, he smiled at the sight that greeted him. America's greatest hero was snoring, leaning his head back and drooling just a little bit on the couch cushions, one arm looped protectively over the world's deadliest assassin who was curled up into a ball against his side and wearing a sweatshirt that was way too big for him. It was adorable.

Sam contemplated taking a picture, then decided he valued his life too much for that. Instead he grabbed the blanket that had slipped onto the floor and tucked it gently back up around the super-soldiers, turned the light back off, and headed outside with a smile.


	4. Skater Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I make no apologies for this. This is a song for the ages.

* * *

Steve came home from a run just as his cell phone started ringing. Tony was calling a briefing for their next mission, and a quick glance at the clock told him he'd have time to take a shower if he hurried. It had not gone over well last time he'd shown up straight from a workout.

"Bucky?" he called. Bucky would have gotten the same message, but he wasn't the greatest at keeping track of his phone. Steve found it in its usual place on the coffee table. "Buck?" he called. The apartment was oddly quiet.

The door to Bucky's room wasn't closed all the way, and after a knock received no response, Steve pushed it open carefully. Bucky was sitting on the carpet in the middle of the room. His back was to the door, and he was wearing the headphones Sam had gotten him after complaining that he was sick to death of hearing big band music. He looked like he was writing something in his notebook.

It didn't look like much, but Steve smiled. This was a huge step for Bucky—he wasn't watching the entrance and his music was obviously up loud enough that he wasn't listening to his surroundings. He felt safe here. And that was awesome.

Of course, it presented another problem. Specifically, the problem of how to get Bucky's attention without getting maimed. Ex-Hydra assassin he may be—emphasis on the 'ex'—but he still didn't take surprises well. He obviously hadn't heard Steve calling him, and Steve knew better than to sneak up on him. Last time he'd startled Bucky, he'd almost lost an eye.

"Bucky?" he called. "Bucky!" Louder this time, but no dice.

"Hey, you guys coming?" Sam asked, sticking his head out of his room.

"Yeah, I'm just…" He gestured at Bucky's room.

Sam walked over. "Huh," he said. "Look at that." Like Steve, he understood the significance of Bucky's back to the door. He grinned. "Told ya," he said, bumping Steve with his elbow. He'd been the one to remind Steve that Bucky may know in his head that he was safe, but knowing it with his instincts was going to take a while.

"Yeah, yeah," Steve replied, smiling. "Any ideas?"

"On how to keep both of your eyes?" Sam asked. "To be honest, I'm surprised he hasn't smelled you yet."

"Hey!"

"Dude, super-soldier, super-sweat. You're not going to the briefing like that, are you?"

"No. I just wanted to let Bucky know what was going on so he could get ready."

Sam nodded. "Hmm," he mused. He looked around, spotted one of Steve's shoes on the floor in the living room, grabbed the shoe and chucked it at Bucky's head.

The effect was instantaneous. Bucky whirled around, papers scattering from his notebook and headphones falling from his ears. Steve and Sam both jumped away from the door as Bucky lunged forward, brandishing a knife neither of them had known he'd had on him. (Stupid mistake, Steve thought. Bucky _always_ had something on him.) "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" they exclaimed.

Just as quickly as he'd reacted, Bucky recognized them and stopped short, dropping his arms to his sides but keeping the glare. "What the hell?" he demanded.

"Really, Sam?" Steve asked at the same time.

Sam shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Sorry, Bucky," Steve said. "I was trying to get your attention and you couldn't hear me."

"And the next logical step was to throw a shoe at my head?"

"Sam threw the shoe," Steve explained. "I was trying to think of something less…provocative."

"Sorry," Sam said, and he sounded like he meant it. "But we're on the clock, and it seemed like the fastest way to get your attention without getting punched."

Bucky sighed and shook his head. "Yeah, fine. Maybe next time throw it _past_ me, and not _at_ me?"

"Fair enough."

"We've got a mission briefing in twenty," Steve said, trying to pull the conversation back on track.

"Oh. Okay." Bucky looked him up and down. "You're gonna shower, right?"

Sam snickered and Steve sighed. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Just lookin' out for you, Stevie," Bucky replied with a grin. "I don't think Nat was bluffing when she said she'd kill you."

"Oh, she'd do it," Sam agreed. "Here you go, man," he added, picking up Bucky's iPod from where it had landed by his feet.

"Thanks," Bucky said, reaching out a hand.

"Wait, is that…" Music was still coming from the headphones, and Sam leaned in to listen. The way his eyes widened was comical. "Avril Lavigne?"

"What?" Bucky shrugged. "I was fine with the big band, jazz and swing. You're the one who said I needed to update my playlist."

"Avril Lavigne?"

"You should be happy. I listened to you."

"Are you secretly a fourteen-year-old wannabe punk girl?"

"Wait," Steve cut in. "Is she the one who sings that skater boy song?" And if he thought Sam's eyes were wide before…

"He was a skater boy, she said, 'See ya later, boy'," Bucky sang.

Steve grinned. "He wasn't good enough for her," he sang.

Bucky beamed, one of his 'I'm in a good place' smiles that Steve was starting to see more often. "Now he's a super-star, slammin' on his guitar," they sang together, spinning together in unison towards Sam as they finished the chorus. "Does your pretty face see what he's worth?"

"Dear Lord, help me," Sam said quietly, pressing the iPod into Bucky's hand and walking quickly back to his room.

"Oh, come on, Wilson!" Bucky called. "Chill out," he and Steve started to sing together, grinning at one another as they realized they were on the same page. "Whatcha yellin' for?" Sam slammed his door, and the super-soldiers dissolved into laughter.

"Oh, that was beautiful," Bucky said, wiping away a tear as he laughed.

Steve took another moment to catch his breath. "I think we could have some fun with this," he smirked. "Seriously, though," he began, turning back to his friend. "This is a direction I never would have pegged you branching out in."

"I know, I know," Bucky shook his head. "I really have been trying to broaden my horizons musically. Rock music, I am loving. I'm on the fence with country, and I don't know about this whole Lady Gaga thing. I'm not sure what that is."

"I don't think anyone knows," Steve said.

"Yeah, I don't like it. Anyway, I may have also asked Tony what kind of music he thought would irritate Sam, and, well…Turns out this girl is really catchy."

"I know, right?" Steve agreed. "I'm gonna be singing this skater song for the rest of the day."

Bucky grinned. "You think we can cue it up to play on the Quinjet speakers?"

Steve returned the smile. "You know, Thor has a thing for Earth music. I'll bet he knows all the words by the end of the mission."


	5. Unexpected Failure--Reboot System?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is...only partially Sad Bucky. Guest appearances by Tony, Bruce and J.A.R.V.I.S.

* * *

"You have any plans this weekend?" Steve asked as Sam set his plate down on the counter and pulled up a stool. They'd gotten back that morning from a mission that had gone surprisingly smoothly, and Sam and Nat had been rejoicing in the availability of the weekend. Nat hadn't said why—she never did—but Sam had seemed to be looking forward to more than just the chance to sleep in.

"Oh, yeah," Sam said with a grin, taking a bite of his food. "Me and the girl from the front desk down at the V.A.—nice dinner, take a walk around the park, maybe hit up a club, do a little dancing."

"Is that Tiffany?" Bucky asked. "With all the earrings?"

"Mm-hmm," Sam nodded, and Bucky grinned.

"About time. It was getting embarrassing, watching you two make awkward small talk."

Steve laughed and Sam glared. "Hey now, don't hate. You think it's easy to schedule a date when Tony and Steve keep finding all these world-threatening crises? You," he added, pointing his fork at Steve. "Last time I had to cancel on her, it was you calling the mission."

"Hey, I—"

"We were in Brazil for a week and a half. That's not an easy hole to dig yourself out of."

Steve raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. Well, no missions this weekend. I hope you enjoy your date."

"What are you two old dudes up to?"

"Oh, you know," Bucky said. "Probably sit outside and yell at kids to get off the lawn."

Steve laughed again. Bucky had had a run of good days lately, with easy laughter and smooth conversation that was reminiscent of his old self. It was good to see. Sam shook his head. "You know, if we _had_ a lawn, I could totally see you doing that."

"Yeah, well, after we yell at the kids, there's a thing at the Planetarium we were gonna go see with Bruce," Steve said.

"Oh, yeah, that galaxy journey thing," Sam said with a nod. "I saw something about that. Hey, you know, if you're feeling the whole space thing, there's this special on the Discovery Channel tonight about the history of space travel you should watch."

"Oh, yeah?" Steve asked. By now, he was caught up on key events he'd missed out on, but there was still a lot of history to catch up on. And yeah, he'd fought aliens and worked with genius scientists and super-spies who had technology he wouldn't have been able to dream of as a kid, but space was still this magical, fantastic thing. Bucky loved it too. Science fiction movies were his favorite, and he'd read more books about space than anything else since he'd gotten back.

"Yeah," Sam said with a smile, knowing the two super-soldiers' love of all things space-related. "It's starts right at the beginning with the start of NASA, and the space race with Russia and the whole Sputnik thing—"

Sam stopped talking abruptly as Bucky made a choking sound and dropped his glass, splashing water across the counter. "Whoa!" he exclaimed, grabbing his plate out of the way. He looked up at Bucky, concern immediately replacing the annoyance on his face. "Dude, are you okay?"

"Bucky?" Steve asked worriedly.

Bucky had gone rigid, his eyes worlds away. His mouth and throat were working like he was trying to talk or breathe and couldn't do either. An erratic twitch ran the length of his body and he slumped sideways off his seat, making no move to catch himself before he crashed onto the floor. Steve and Sam jumped up and rounded the counter to where Bucky was gasping on the floor, shaking and twitching like electricity was coursing through his body. He went still as they reached him, eyes rolling back into his head as Steve crashed to his knees next to him.

"Bucky? Bucky!" he called, laying a hand on his chest. He could feel his heart beating underneath his hand, and his chest rose and fell as he breathed, but he didn't respond.

"Is he okay?" Sam asked.

"He's breathing," Steve told him. "Heartbeat's kinda fast, but it's there." To all appearances, Bucky was just asleep on the kitchen floor.

"What the hell happened?" Sam asked, kneeling down.

Steve shook his head. Bucky sometimes had pretty intense reactions when something triggered him unexpectedly, but Steve had never seen this before, and he couldn't think of anything in the past few minutes that seemed like flashback material. "We should…" He swallowed. "We should call Tony." What visits Bucky had made to the medical wing of the Avengers Tower were usually related to his arm, but Tony and Bruce and J.A.R.V.I.S. were still better equipped to handle him than the hospital would be.

"On it," Sam replied, already dialing.

Getting an unconscious super-soldier down the stairs and into and out of Sam's car weren't the easiest things in the world, but they finally made it to Avengers' Tower. Steve's worry had increased as the awkward manhandling did nothing to wake Bucky up. Tony and Bruce were waiting for them in the medical wing, and Steve and Sam moved back as they started tossing theories back and forth and conversing with J.A.R.V.I.S. as he hummed along somewhere in the ceiling.

Finally, Tony stepped away, glaring at his tablet in frustration. "So, he just fell over?" he asked again. "That's it?"

"Yeah, why, what's wrong?" Steve asked.

"Nothing," Tony sighed.

"What are you talking about?"

"J scanned him—he's not bleeding internally or concussed or showing any sign of whatever kind of injury would do this. He's not sick, he's not hurt, he's just…not conscious."

"All signs say he's just very deeply asleep," Bruce added, frowning at his own tablet.

"What, like a coma?" Sam wondered.

"No," Bruce replied, shaking his head. "Just…asleep."

"That can't be all there is to it," Steve insisted.

"Obviously not," Tony snapped. "We just can't tell what it is." He hated not knowing things.

"Sergeant Barnes does show signs of recent activity in the areas of the brain we've previously identified as having been most affected by Hydra," J.A.R.V.I.S. said.

"He had a flashback?" Steve asked. Flashbacks had never done this to him before. This was not a good direction to be going.

"No," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied. "The pattern is different. It is not something I have encountered before. But since it is no longer occurring, I cannot determine anything else about it."

"Whatever his brain was doing, it stopped before you got here," Bruce said. "J.A.R.V.I.S. only picked up the tail end of it."

"We're moving this to the lab," Tony said, gesturing with his tablet. "J.A.R.V.I.S. will keep an eye on him, let us know if anything changes." He and Bruce left, leaning in to look at something on Tony's tablet.

Steve walked over to the side of the bed and looked down at Bucky. "You okay?" Sam asked, moving to his side.

Steve shook his head. "No. I mean, what…what the hell happened?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. He seemed fine. He seemed great, actually. Past few days, I thought he was doing really well."

"He was," Steve agreed. "In the back of my head, I was sort of starting to wonder if something might happen, since things had been good for a while, but I was thinking another flashback or him forgetting who you were again, or something like that. The kind of thing we've been able to handle. This is…"

"Yeah," Sam agreed. Steve knew that for all he and Bucky bickered back and forth and picked at each other like teenagers, the two of them had developed a strong friendship. "Whatever this is, we'll figure it out and we'll learn how to handle it too. No one ever said his road home would be easy."

"Yeah, but," Steve protested. "He was doing so good. I just, I don't understand what made this happen. He's been getting _better_ —it doesn't make sense that things would suddenly get worse."

"Ssshhh," hissed a voice from below them, and they both looked down in surprise to see Bucky glaring and squinting up at them.

"Bucky!" Steve exclaimed.

"Nnh," Bucky growled. "My head is killing me; would you keep it down?"

"Sorry," Steve said. Bucky's glare intensified. "Sorry," he whispered, and Bucky nodded.

Bucky closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "Where the hell are we?"

"Avengers' Tower," Steve said softly.

"What happened to the kitchen?"

"Dude, you just passed out in the middle of dinner," Sam said quietly.

"I'm fine. You could've just put me on the couch," Bucky said.

"What?" Steve demanded. Bucky's eyes snapped open to glare at him again. Steve lowered the volume but shot a glare of his own back at Bucky. "You're not fine. You passed out and had some kind of seizure. You've been unconscious for over an hour, and you still look like you're about to be sick."

"Yeah, actually, now that you mention it…" Bucky said, going pale and swallowing convulsively. Steve grabbed a trashcan in the corner and made it back to the side of the bed just in time for Bucky to hurl spectacularly.

He coughed when he was finished, and Sam held out a glass of water. "Thanks," Bucky rasped.

"Not so much with convincing me you're fine," Steve said, setting the trashcan out of the way.

"No, that…" Bucky was rubbing his head again. The strain of throwing up could not have made his headache any better. "Look, it sucks, _believe me_ , but it just happens this way."

"What does?" Sam asked.

"You know what's going on?" Steve asked at the same time.

"Seriously, guys, volume," Bucky moaned.

One look at Bucky's face had Steve swallowing his irritation. He looked miserable. "Bucky, what happened?" he asked softly. He sat down in the chair by the bed so Bucky wouldn't have to keep looking up. The ceiling light probably wasn't helping his head either. "Did you have a flashback?"

"No," Bucky said. "I mean, not exactly."

"So…?"

"I know I should have told you about this before," Bucky sighed. "I, honestly, I didn't remember it was a thing until it happened, and then I was, you know…"

"Freaking us out?" Steve supplied.

Bucky grimaced. "Please don't yell at me."

"I'm not gonna yell at you, Buck," Steve assured him. Whether it was because he didn't want the noise to add to his headache, or because he was afraid of making Steve mad—Bucky forgot sometimes that no one was going to hurt him if they got mad at him—Steve regretted lashing out at him. "I'm sorry I got so upset. I'm just worried about you."

That got a small smile out of Bucky. "I guess it's probably my turn to be on that side of things, huh?"

Steve smiled. "So what happened?" he asked again.

Bucky sighed and rubbed his head again. "It's a failsafe that Hydra built into my brain. So they could…turn me off."

"What?" Steve breathed, swallowing down a wave of nausea.

Bucky smiled humorlessly. "I was an unstable killing machine. Especially towards the beginning. Before they got the timing of the chair and the ice and everything down, I would…I would sometimes remember enough to know that something was wrong and freak out. They needed to be able to shut me down if I got out of hand."

"That is so many kinds of wrong," Sam said from where he had moved to sit on the other side of the bed. His face was twisted in disgust.

Steve shook his head, speechless.

"It was either that or shoot me, and after the first time they did that, Zola decided it was inefficient." Steve was about to ask how he could joke about something like this, but the look in Bucky's eyes told him if he didn't laugh he was going to scream. "I was still me when they did it," Bucky said softly. "Partly, anyway. Enough to know how…" He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "It scared the hell out of me."

"Buck, I'm so sorry," Steve said softly, reaching over and to grab his shoulder. Bucky looked up at him, blinking away the tears of bad memories, and gave him a grateful smile. He'd told Steve before that knowing Steve had his back was what kept him sane, but that sometimes he needed reminding.

"Did we do this to you?" Sam asked hesitantly.

"Huh?" Bucky looked over at him.

"Setting off this failsafe thing," Sam said. "Because I never want to see that happen to you again, man. Was it like a sound in the apartment, or something one of us said, or…?"

"Oh, um," Bucky said, cheeks reddening a little.

"Bucky…" Steve said. Sam was right. They needed to know what made this happen so that it would never happen again.

Bucky swallowed and looked up at Sam with an embarrassed grimace.

Sam's eyes widened. "It was me?" Bucky gave a small nod. "Oh, my gosh, dude, I am _so_ sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"It's okay," Bucky cut in quietly. He sounded like he meant it.

"Bucky, I—"

"It's really okay," Bucky assured him. "It's not like you did it on purpose."

Sam nodded with a small smile, accepting the absolution but still looking incredibly remorseful. "What was it, so I can make sure never to do it again? Wait," he stopped himself. "Can you tell me? Will you saying it set it off again?"

"Sputnik," Bucky told him.

"Sputnik?" Sam repeated, looking confused, then his eyes widened again and he clapped his hand over his mouth in horror as he realized he'd just said it again.

Bucky chuckled. It was good to see him laugh, even if it did look like it hurt his head. "It doesn't work now," he said. "Actually, you probably did me a favor," he went on.

"How's that?" Sam asked.

"Every time they used it, it had to be reset," he explained. "They didn't want people just tossing it around, so reactivating the failsafe was a whole process. A fairly unpleasant one, actually, but not one that's going to happen again. So, the word doesn't work anymore, and now I won't be somewhere more dangerous than the kitchen and have someone accidentally shut me off. Since apparently the word 'sputnik' comes up in conversation more than Zola thought it would," he added with a small smirk, getting a smile out of Sam.

"Well, I guess that's good news, but I'm still sorry," Sam said. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. I can sleep it off."

"You're sure?" Steve pressed.

Bucky smiled. "Not my first rodeo."

"Alright," Steve agreed. He sat back in the chair. "Take as long as you need."

"What, here?" Bucky asked. "No, can we go home?" Steve hesitated. "Please?"

Everyone talked about Steve's puppy-dog eyes, but Bucky's sure packed a punch. Steve sighed.

"J.A.R.V.I.S., is it safe for him to leave?" Steve asked the ceiling.

"Sergeant Barnes' scans have returned to normal," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied, making Bucky jump. "My apologies for startling you, Sergeant. But there is no danger in allowing you to return home."

"Um, thank…thank you," Bucky said, looking around the room uncertainly. Bucky still tended to find the A.I. disconcerting if he wasn't expecting him.

"I'll go find Stark," Sam said, standing up.

"We can fill him in later," Steve said, catching the look on Bucky's face. He didn't look up for more people right now. "J.A.R.V.I.S. can you let him know?"

"Of course, Captain Rogers," he replied.

"Thanks," Bucky smiled. He pushed himself up on shaky arms and groaned. "I'm probably going to need to lean on you to get to the car."

Steve looped an arm under Bucky's shoulder and pulled him up.

"Slowly!" Bucky hissed, wincing. "Unless you want me to throw up on your feet."

"Sorry," Steve apologized. With as badly as he was shaking, Steve wasn't convinced they should be moving him yet, but if he wanted to recover at home, Steve would let him.

Sam moved in to support Bucky on his other side and Bucky grunted a little but didn't complain. Steve knew he must be feeling awful if he wasn't at least going to act like he thought they were babying him.

They got him down the elevator and to the car without incident, but when they got back to the apartment, Bucky groaned when they tried to help him out of the car. "Can I just sleep here?" he whined.

"No," Steve said.

"Dude, it's already dark. It's gonna get cold out here," Sam pointed out. Both he and Steve knew that was the best line to take—Bucky hated being cold.

"Unnnnh," Bucky groaned, but he extended his arm and allowed Steve to pull him out of the backseat and onto his feet.

They were only going to the third floor, but the elevator seemed to take twice as long as it did coming down from the thirty-second floor at Tony's. When the doors finally opened, Bucky stepped out of the elevator with Steve then lurched away from him to throw up in the planter in the hallway. "Sorry," Bucky whispered when he was done. He made no move to get up from where he was leaning.

"It's okay," Steve told him, rubbing his back. He'd give him a few minutes.

"Is all this part of the failsafe?" Sam asked. He didn't sound irritated at how slowly they were moving—just curious. Steve also detected an undercurrent of concern.

"Uh huh," Bucky groaned. "The existential terror of the whole thing never really phased the Winter Soldier. The pain was a pretty good reminder to stay in line, though."

"I'm thinking our next mission should be more Hydra hunting," Sam said conversationally. "I could do with punching some evil scientists."

"Couldn't agree more," Steve said, seething internally. He always thought he'd reached the limit of how much it was possible to hate something, then he would find out about something else Hydra had done to Bucky and that hatred would skyrocket again.

"Not until after Sam's date," Bucky mumbled into the planter. He looked up, his expression somewhere between guilt and unsure if he was going to throw up again. "I didn't make you miss it, did I?"

"No, hey, don't even worry about it, man," Sam assured him. "It's tomorrow anyway."

"Good," Bucky said with a tiny nod. "Help me up?"

Steve and Sam carefully got him to his feet. "Just thirty more feet, man," Steve told him, noting the controlled way he was breathing. "You've got this."

Very slowly, they made it back to the apartment. Inside, Steve started steering Bucky toward his room, but he pulled away from him in the living room and collapsed face-down on the couch.

"You don't want to go to your room?" Steve asked.

"Nnh-nnh," Bucky grunted into the cushions.

Steve wondered if he was too tired to make it all the way, or if he wanted to stay around him and Sam. Whenever Hydra came gnawing at the corners of his mind—usually after a flashback—he didn't like being alone. Too easy to get lost in that darkness. "Okay," Steve said softly. Sam cleared his throat, and Steve looked up to see him coming out of Bucky's room, carrying the heavy blanket from his bed. He took it and laid it over Bucky, who made a noise that was probably a 'thank you'.

Sam rounded the couch and sat down in one of the other chairs. "That Discovery Channel thing is about to come on, if you wanna watch it," he said to Steve, having picked up on Bucky's need to not be alone too. He nodded at Bucky. "Space stuff always has relaxing music. We can record it so he can watch it when he feels better."

Steve smiled. "Sounds good." He made sure the blanket was secure around Bucky, who sounded like he was asleep already, and settled down in the other chair.

When it was over, Sam headed to bed. Steve stayed in the living room with Bucky, who hadn't moved in the slightest in the three hours he'd been on the couch. He settled back into his chair with the book he'd been reading, eventually drifting off. He woke up around sunrise—a ray of sunlight was poking through the blinds and shining directly into his eye. Too lazy to get up and readjust the curtains, he just shifted and moved his head. Bucky was still sleeping on the couch, but he'd rolled so that his face was no longer pressed into the cushions. Recently too, if the thread pattern on his cheek was anything to go by. The lines of pain across his face had been smoothed away, and he looked peaceful. Steve smiled and closed his eyes again.

* * *

_I hope you're enjoying these little stories. There's more to come! I'd love to hear what you're thinking in the meantime._


	6. Sharp-Dressed Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This one was inspired by the beauty that is Sebastian Stan. That boy can rock a pair of skinny jeans and a leather jacket.

* * *

"All I'm saying," Bucky protested, kicking shut the apartment door behind him. "Is that it wasn't a fair bet."

"You're just upset you lost to a girl," Nat teased, setting down the bag of groceries she was carrying.

"That's not true," Bucky argued. "I'm upset because you cheated." He put down the two large bags he was carrying.

Steve poked his head in from the living room curiously. "Oh, hey, Nat. What's going on?"

Natasha smiled. "Barnes lost a bet, and now he's whining about it," she informed him with a smirk.

"I didn't lose, she cheated," Bucky insisted, making a little more noise than was necessary as he started putting groceries away.

"Prove it," Nat said, and Bucky glared. Steve knew that whatever the bet had been, odds were decent that Natasha _had_ cheated, but it was even more likely that there wasn't a shred of proof.

"I'd cut your losses, Buck. What was the bet?" Steve asked.

"He's got to buy my dinner tonight," Nat said. They were all going out to dinner for Pepper's birthday this evening.

"That's not so bad," Steve said.

"Yeah, if that was all I had to do," Bucky said. "She's making me go shopping, Steve."

"Shopping?"

"He owns, like, six outfits, and one of those is combat gear," Nat said.

"I don't need more than that," Bucky insisted.

"You have one pair of shoes."

"So?"

"You need more clothes, and now is the perfect opportunity. You need something a little dressier for tonight anyway," she said. "All you own are t-shirts and jeans with holes in them. And not in the fashionable way, but in the I-jumped-out-of-the-third-floor-window-and-landed-in-a-dumpster way."

Back when they were younger, Bucky had actually been a pretty snappy dresser. He'd dress up to take girls out, look good for work, and just all around make a good impression. These days, his goal was to make no impression—he hated feeling like people were looking at him, and non-descript clothes were a good way to help with that.

"I'll come with you," Steve offered. "I've been meaning to get a new dress shirt anyway." He'd been meaning to do no such thing, and he was pretty sure Bucky knew it, but he could be there to help keep him grounded in the crowd and keep Nat from going too far with whatever she had in mind. Bucky gave him a quick, grateful nod, and Nat grinned.

"Great! Let's get going," she said.

An hour and two stores later, Bucky was looking a little more relaxed. Well, as relaxed as he could be in a mall full of people, which was not actually a lot. He wasn't complaining about the shopping anymore, though. As the queen of the spies, Nat was pretty good at blending in herself, and though Bucky had never verbally expressed his desire not to draw attention to himself, she'd picked up on it and was very understanding of it. Everything she'd picked out for him so far had been in the same line of things he liked to wear, just nicer, though she did force him to buy another pair of shoes. She'd convinced him to pick up some nice sweaters too after pointing out how well they hid his arm, though the selling point for him seemed to be how soft they were. (Bucky had always had a thing for soft clothes—he was loving pajamas of the future.)

"See?" she said. "I'm not trying to torture you, here. And now you won't have to do laundry as often. So, really, I'm doing you a favor. Take this one too, the blue will look good with your eyes," she added, handing him a sweater with blue and gray stripes.

"Um, thanks," Bucky said awkwardly.

"Now," she said with a grin. "We need an outfit for you for dinner tonight."

"Why can't I wear this?" he pouted. "You just said this was a nice sweater."

"It is a nice sweater," she agreed. "But the place we're eating is just a little more upscale. You don't have to wear a tie," she told him as his eyes widened in trepidation. "But it's Tony—it's a trendy place. Wait here. I'll be back." Before Bucky could say anything, she disappeared into the crowd.

Bucky sighed. "You doing alright?" Steve asked. Thankfully, it was a Thursday afternoon, so the mall wasn't crowded, but it was still more people than Bucky liked.

"Yeah, I guess," he sighed. "Whatever this last thing is she wants me to wear, we can go after that, right?"

"Yep," Steve promised.

"I used to dress nice, didn't I?" he asked, looking down at the clothes in his hands and sounding a little wistful. "Suit and tie, shoeshine, that kind of thing…"

"You taught me how to tie a tie," Steve reminded him.

Bucky grinned. "You were pathetic. Didn't you actually pull it so tight you couldn't breathe?"

"That was one time!" Steve protested, glad to see the smile back on Bucky's face. "You could try it, if you wanted," he suggested. "Something with a tie."

Bucky looked at a display of ties a couple of tables over. "I don't know if I'm ready for that," he said softly.

"You don't need to be," Steve assured him. He clapped him on the shoulder. "People don't wear ties as much as they used to anyway," he added.

Bucky nodded, pulling himself back to the moment. "Yeah. And this," he lifted the clothes he was holding. "I think this is good. I mean, don't tell Nat I said that, she's smug enough as it is, but I think it's good. I've been…I could toss just about everything I own in a backpack and run if I needed to," he said thoughtfully. "But I don't need to able to run anymore. Having more stuff than I could carry if I went out the window in the middle of the night is like…like making myself _be_ here and stake a claim in where I am. Like making it home," he finished quietly.

Steve smiled warmly. "That's great, Buck." He hadn't consciously put together that the reason Bucky had so little was because he wasn't sure when he would have to run again, but it made sense. Bucky may not have consciously put it together either until saying it out loud just now, but he was making the intentional decision to stay and let that fear go.

Bucky blushed a little. "Not that it's the stuff that makes it home, I mean, you…"

"I know what you meant," Steve assured him with a smile. "I did all this too, when I came out of the ice. You've got to have some pieces of a normal life to help you actually get one."

Bucky nodded, grateful that he understood. He smiled, looking a little proud of himself. He was aware that this was a big step he'd taken. Steve was proud of him too.

"Alright!" Nat said, making her way back toward them. She was holding up a large bag from another store. "Got it! Let's pay for your stuff and get out of here."

"What is it?" Bucky asked.

"I will show it to you half an hour before Pepper's dinner, right before you put it on."

"Why?" Bucky asked, suddenly looking suspicious.

"Because at that point you will be unable to argue with me," she said sweetly. She nodded toward the register. "Chop, chop!"

"I don't know about this, Steve," Bucky said.

"She wouldn't get you anything awful," Steve reasoned.

"Then why won't she let me see it?"

Steve didn't have a good answer for that.

They made it home with a couple of hours to go before dinner. Nat left, taking the mysterious bag and promising to be back before it was time for them to get ready. She returned just as Sam was getting back from the V.A. "Okay!" she announced, holding out the bag and grinning from ear to ear.

Bucky pulled himself up from where he was laying on the couch with a sigh. "You know, at no point in this bet did it say anywhere that you got to embarrass me."

"I won't embarrass you," she said. "You'll look great. I promise." She shifted her stance and put one hand on her hip when Bucky made no move to get off the couch, holding out the bag. "Put it on." Bucky grabbed it with a growl. "And make sure you brush your hair. I've got a brush in my bag in case you need one."

Bucky glared. "I'm not a complete Neanderthal, Natasha. I do, in fact, own a hairbrush that I was planning on using. I was even going to shave."

"Good for you," she said, making a shooing gesture toward the back of the apartment.

Bucky continued to glare. "You know I know where you sleep, right?"

"Hurry up or we'll be late," she said coolly.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, coming into the living room as Bucky stomped back to his room. Everyone but Bucky was ready to go—Steve was wearing the new shirt he'd bought and dark slacks—what Sam called 'grandpa chic'—while Sam had changed into something more stylish than his work clothes. Nat was in a sparkly top with fitted black pants and high heels and looked amazing.

"Nat took Bucky shopping today," Steve said. "She made him buy something for Pepper's party tonight."

"Oh, good," Sam said. "Man could use some variety in his wardrobe."

"She wouldn't let him see what she bought him until just now," Steve added.

"Ooh," Sam said, quirking an eyebrow at Nat.

She smiled and shrugged. "He would never have let me buy it if he'd seen it first. What?" she said when Steve gave her a warning eyebrow. "It's not bad. It's just not what he would have picked out for himself. He's gonna look good," she promised.

Whatever Steve was going to say was lost as Bucky shouted, "oh, HELL, no!" from his room.

"Put it on, Barnes, we're gonna be late!" Nat shouted back.

"I don't know what this is, but I love it already," Sam laughed.

"Nat, seriously," Steve started.

"Don't worry, Steve," she insisted. "I'm not trying to do anything awful here," she said sincerely. Given her background, she was probably better equipped to understand what Bucky had been through than any of them. She might tease him, but she would never be deliberately cruel.

Steve nodded, and they heard Bucky's door open. "I hate you," he declared from the hallway.

"Get on out here and show us, man," Sam said. "We don't wanna be late."

They heard Bucky sigh, and a moment later he stepped back into the room. Steve's eyes widened and Sam's jaw actually dropped. He looked…great.

He was wearing black skinny jeans—something Steve hadn't been bold enough to try yet, but Sam favored—tucked into short black boots with silver buckles on the sides. A light gray sweater with a single black stripe across the chest was tucked into the jeans and then covered with a fitted black leather jacket with silver zippers and studs on the lapels. It was nothing ostentatious—the sort of thing Steve saw a lot of guys wearing. But Nat was right—it was a couple of notches up from his usual dress and, she was right again, it looked really good on him.

"Dude, you look awesome," Sam said.

"Really?" Bucky asked skeptically. He looked down at himself uncertainly. "I don't know about this."

"It looks really good," Steve assured him.

"I look like Tony," Bucky complained, pulling at one of the legs of his jeans.

"Tony wears his pants a hell of a lot tighter than that, and he wishes he could rock them half as well as you do," Nat declared. She was looking at him the way girls used to look at him before he left for the war. Bucky blushed and ducked his head, and when Nat noticed Steve smirking as he noticed her noticing Bucky, she blushed too. "Let's go, fellas," she said, jumping off her perch on the arm of the couch. "Don't want to be late."

Bucky hung back as she and Sam moved toward the door. "Are you sure this is okay?" he asked quietly. "I feel ridiculous."

"Is it the pants?" Steve asked.

"Mostly, yeah," Bucky replied.

"A lot of guys wear pants like that now," Steve said.

"I have noticed that," Bucky admitted.

"You're not gonna stand out, if that's what you're worried about," Steve assured him. "But if you don't want to wear it, you don't have to."

Bucky considered. "You're sure it looks okay?"

"It looks great. Very stylish."

"Okay," Bucky sighed. "Okay." He nodded, like he was talking himself into it. "Already took a big step today, why not make it two, right?"

Steve smiled and clapped him on the back. "Okay." He was really proud of him. "And, hey, after the party, we can spend the entire weekend here at home. We'll order pizza, work on the Netflix queue and not talk to anybody. Wear whatever the hell you want."

Bucky grinned. "Deal."

Later that evening, Steve was sitting at the bar with Clint. "He's not bad," Clint said, nodding out to the dance floor where Bucky, after less cajoling than Steve would have expected, was dancing with Nat. He'd definitely turned some heads at their table—Pepper, Jane, Maria and Darcy had been looking at him the same way Nat had earlier, and Steve had seen Pepper kick Tony under the table to stop what was no doubt a snarky remark—but everyone had been casually complimentary, which seemed to put Bucky at ease. He'd relaxed considerably after he'd gotten a chance to look around and realized that he actually blended in very well, and, though he didn't talk much, had ended up enjoying himself.

Steve nodded. "Well, he was the local swing dance champion three years running."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "You're kidding."

Steve shook his head, smiling. "Nope. The girls were lining up to dance with him."

Clint grinned. "Well, I'd believe that. I think there's a few of them doing that now," he said, nodding at the edge of the dance floor. There were several girls whispering and casting discreet glances in his direction. "So, he seems to be doing alright these days?"

"Yeah," Steve nodded. Besides Sam and Nat, Clint had shown the most interest in helping Bucky put his life back together. Steve wondered if Bucky reminded him of Nat before she found her feet. "I think he's settling, you know? More good days than bad."

Clint nodded. "Glad to hear it. I hear Nat's the one who talked him into the outfit?" Steve nodded and Clint smiled. "She's got that way about her, doesn't she?"

"She sure does," Steve grinned. Nat's methods of helping Bucky were very different from Steve's but they seemed to be working. Steve honestly hadn't expected her to get him out on the dance floor, but he was smiling—the old Bucky still struggled to find his way out sometimes, but he was here tonight.

The song ended and they left the floor, moving in Steve and Clint's direction. "Alright, Rogers," Nat said, pulling him off the stool. "Your turn."

"What?" Steve sputtered as she pulled him out towards the floor.

"Don't step on her feet, Stevie!" Bucky called after him, grinning.


	7. Misuse of Appliance May Void Warranty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is just nice and fluffy, because that's always fun. There's also an exploding microwave, because maybe Steve isn't quite as caught up on modern technology as everyone thought...

* * *

It was a little easier to see now that Sam had opened all the windows in the living room and given the smoke somewhere to go. It was also easier to hear now that the smoke alarm had stopped going off—although the reason it had stopped was that it was in about seventeen pieces because Bucky had punched it. Landlord wasn't going to be too happy about that. What had not improved was the smell now permeating the apartment. It smelled like burned fish. Why the hell it smelled like burned fish was anybody's guess since Steve had been microwaving pasta.

"So," Sam said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. Bucky was waving the remaining smoke toward a window with a dishtowel. Steve had the good sense to look ashamed of himself. "What did you even do?"

Steve shrugged. "I don't know. I was heating the pasta, it started making a weird noise, and when I opened the door to check on it…everything just caught on fire."

"That microwave should not have done that," Sam insisted. "It's less than a year old. There is no good reason for it to be catching on fire."

"Yes, there is," Bucky said from behind them. He'd returned to the kitchen and had opened up the sad shell of what had once been a microwave. They turned around to see him smirking and holding up a carbonized lump of something that had probably been the pasta. Sticking up out of the lump was something long and thin and charred, but still recognizable.

"Oh, hell, no," Sam groaned.

"What?" Steve asked.

"What?" Sam repeated incredulously. "What? How are you gonna put a fork in the microwave, Steve?!"

Steve shrugged again, looking like he was sure he'd done something wrong but couldn't figure out what. "I guess I left it in the bowl?"

"You left it in the bowl? Wh—" Sam sputtered, at a loss. All evidence was pointing to the fact that, despite Sam having seen him do it in the past, Steve had no idea how to actually use a microwave.

"You can't put metal in the microwave, Stevie," Bucky explained, still grinning a little. "Even _I_ know that."

"Oh, don't you start," Sam said, rounding on Bucky. Where did he get off finding this so funny? "Not after what you did to the toaster."

Bucky smirked. "Can't put metal in the toaster either," he said, looking up at Steve. "Though, in my defense," he said, turning back to Sam. "That was the first time I'd ever used a toaster."

Sam threw his head back and groaned. "You old guys are killing me, seriously. Does everything in this apartment need an instruction manual?"

"To be fair, the toaster thing _was_ an accident," Steve said.

Defending Bucky was like a reflex for Steve, and Sam had to roll his eyes and suppress the urge to tell him to stop it. "He put his hand in the toaster. His _metal hand_. Why would you even do that?"

"You've asked me this before," Bucky said, unperturbed. He was using the aforementioned metal hand to try to chip the fork out of the blackened lump of pasta. "The bread broke, I tried to get it out. Things exploded, I bought you a new toaster. Besides, you're supposed to be yelling at Steve right now, not me."

Sam shook his head. "I always thought that working with the Avengers and going up against some crazy, super-powered bad guy was gonna be what got me, but no. No, it's gonna be you two. I'm gonna die in my sleep because one of you is gonna send the whole place up in flames trying to use a hairdryer in the bathtub or something."

"You're not supposed to do that?" Steve asked innocently. Bucky snickered.

"Dude, look at this mess," Sam sighed, choosing to ignore the comment. The microwave was completely ruined, a charred, blackened shell that was still smoking a little bit. The counter below where it had sat and the cabinet above were scorched, and sooty streaks of black ran down the side of the fridge. The offending appliance was currently on the floor, where it had landed after shooting off the counter, chipping the tile and slamming into the dishwasher and knocking it open. On the one hand, the water from inside the dishwasher had put out the fire. Yay. On the other hand, there was now sooty, soapy water all over the kitchen and creeping toward the living room. Partially cleaned dishes floated forlornly across the floor.

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. I'll clean it up," Steve promised. "And I'll buy a new microwave."

"One that you will _not_ put metal in," Sam reminded him, accepting the peace offering.

"Never," Steve said, crossing his heart.

"Got it!" Bucky said triumphantly, brandishing the newly freed fork.

They got some towels and got to work barricading the water in the kitchen and keeping it off the carpet. Steve got a mop and started on the floor after picking up the loose dishes and putting them in the sink. Bucky carried the dead microwave outside–a little grumpily, since Sam wouldn't let him just drop it out the window into the dumpster waiting three floors below.

"I gotta ask," Sam started, watching Steve work. "How do you not know not to put metal in the microwave?"

Steve sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, okay, I—"

"No, no, I'm not mad," Sam cut him off. Well, maybe just a little. But it had been an honest, if strange, mistake. "I'm just curious. Like, that's microwave safety 101. You've been out of the ice for, what, three years? Four? How did you never come across that information?"

"I never had a microwave," Steve replied with a shrug.

"Really?" Sam asked, surprised. "Not even when you had your own place?"

Steve shook his head. "I first learned how to cook without one. Never got around to buying one."

"Huh," Sam mused. Steve had learned so much about the modern world, Sam kind of took it for granted that he'd caught up on everything like that. He chuckled a little.

"Don't tell Tony about this," Steve warned, looking up from his mopping.

"Aw, come on, man, why not?" Sam asked, not having any actual intention of doing so. Tony still liked to call Steve 'Capsicle'. If he heard about the microwave thing, it would follow Steve to his grave. He chuckled again as Steve glared at him. "Don't worry, I won't. I just think it's funny, is all. Of the two of you, I would've pegged Barnes to be the one to do this kind of thing."

"Thanks, man," Bucky said, coming back into the room.

Sam shrugged. "Hey," he asked as something occurred to him. "How _did_ you know not to put metal in a microwave?"

"What, I can't know things?" Bucky asked.

"It just doesn't seem like the kind of thing that would be up your alley. Domestic stuff, you know?" Not that Bucky couldn't learn, he was just still very new at this returning-to-civilization thing. All sorts of household appliances that Sam took for granted—washing machine, TV, electric stove…almost anything with a plug, really—had been brand new to Bucky. Hell, they'd even had to remind him how the shower worked when he first got here.

Bucky tilted his head in agreement. Sam realized after he'd said it that his comment could have too easily reminded Bucky about Hydra and the reason he didn't know any of that stuff, so he was glad he hadn't taken it the wrong way. "It came up in a mission," Bucky admitted.

"Wh—" Sam looked at Steve, who looked just as puzzled as he did. "Microwave safety came up in a mission?"

"Cairo," Bucky said, referring to one of his earlier missions with the team from a few months ago. "We needed a distraction, I was out of grenades. It was Barton's idea."

Steve's eyes went wide. " _That's_ how you caused that explosion?!"

Bucky grinned. "We put, like, seven of those dinky little tin coffee cups and all the spoons we could find in the microwave in the breakroom." His smile widened. "It was a hell of a firework show."

* * *


	8. That Wasn't On The Shopping List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realized I haven't done one of these from Bucky's POV yet. This one started off with me wondering how Bucky would react to a kiwi (which is, admittedly, an odd-looking fruit), and then the story sort of wandered off and did its own thing. It ended up with more emotional h/c than originally intended, but it's still pretty fluffy.
> 
> (Also, for the sake of the timeline, this one is set pretty early after Bucky's return.)

* * *

It was really bright in here. The lights were those big white fluorescent ones that hummed and hung from chains between duct work that looked too industrial for his comfort. But…no, that was not a good train of thought to follow. It was loud too. Metal clanking and wheels moving and things beeping and lots of voices and just that feeling of _people_ , too many people, and they couldn't be _that_ loud, but it was building up in his head and he couldn't make the noise stop…

"Bucky?" Just like that, it was quiet again. Bucky blinked and realized he'd been holding his breath. Steve was looking at him, looking worried and trying to look like he wasn't. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Bucky nodded. He was fine. He was fine. He'd learned that when he had these moments, if he took the time to breathe, slow down, and think about why it was okay, then usually it _was_ okay. Usually. And it was okay. It was. It was a nice, sunny day—it wasn't cold. They'd walked here from the apartment—he had a home, not a cryo-tank, and he was allowed to go wherever he wanted. It was an open space—no one was going to sneak up on him. There were people around, families and old people and students and kids—not soldiers and handlers and scientists and assassins. And Steve was here. Steve, who was standing a little bit too close, but that was kind of reassuring right now. Steve, who kept Bucky safe. And Steve, who, if he needed to, could keep everyone else safe from Bucky. Breathe it all in in…Let it all out. "Yeah," he said again, pulling up a smile. "I'm okay." And now he was.

"You sure?" Steve pressed. "We don't have to do this now."

Bucky nodded again. "I want to do this now. It was just, it was a lot at once, stepping in, but I'm good." He smiled. "Let's do it."

Steve studied him for a moment, then smiled back. "Okay." He pointed over to their left. "Let's get a basket."

"Were grocery stores always this big?" Bucky asked, looking around as Steve pulled out a cart. He remembered grocery shopping. But his mind was holding on to a picture of dark little stores that smelled like coffee and candy and soap. Meat came from the butcher, bread came from the baker, and fruit was in boxes on tables outside.

"No," Steve replied, shaking his head. "We used to have to go to a bunch of places to get everything. They sort of stick it all together now."

"Saves you a trip, I guess," Bucky mused. He watched as Steve pushed the cart into the first aisle. "You'd think in the future they'd have figured out how to fix that," he said, nodding at the wonky wheel at the front of the cart.

Steve chuckled. "Some things never change."

"So, where do we start?"

"Well, let's just start here with the produce. You wanna look around and see if there's anything you like?"

Steve said it so casually, but Bucky couldn't help a little shiver of excitement. Yeah, it was just a bunch of fruit and vegetables, but Steve was letting him choose. Not that Steve had forced him to do anything since he came back, but he was the first person to let Bucky make any kind of choice in almost seventy years. You'd think after a month it would have lost a little bit of shine, but it was still pretty exhilarating. "Okay," he said, smiling.

Thrill of having options aside, it did present another problem—namely, what _did_ he like? He wasn't sure. He didn't think he was picky. He liked the food that Sam and Steve made. He liked the food they sometimes ordered in. He did _not_ like that gray, mushy crap Hydra used to feed him when he was actually out of the ice long enough to need to eat. He remembered there being food before Hydra, and he must have liked some of it, but…yeah, that was about all he had.

Deciding not to get caught up on what he couldn't remember, Bucky moved forward to the first display. This wasn't a test. He would just see what jumped out at him. He was aware of Steve behind him, trying very hard not to hover, and he smiled internally. A lot of Bucky's memories were still spotty, but hovering over Tiny Steve, he remembered. In fact, he was pretty sure Steve often accused him of being a mother-hen. It was probably only fair that the tables were turned now. He didn't think he minded. Not much, anyway.

Taking pity on Steve, he gestured at the apples in front of them. He did know he liked apples. "So, we're supposed to weigh these?" He thought maybe you used to pay for apples individually, but he could have been wrong. The sign seemed to indicate they were sold by the pound.

"Yeah," Steve said, looking happy to be of use. He grabbed a little plastic bag hanging below the fruit. "You put however many you want in here, then put them on the scale." He showed Bucky how to put in the code from the sign, and a small sticker printed out of the side of the scale with the price on it. It seemed like a weirdly complicated way to simplify things, but Bucky got it.

There were several things he recognized—bananas, oranges, grapes, pears…Some of them he was surprised to see, like berries he suddenly remembered used to only be available in the summer. He had a flash of a warm day and sweet, fruity aromas and a woman who was probably his mother pulling a pie from the oven. It was sweet and juicy and hot and stained his fingers purple, little seeds sticking to his teeth. Blackberry.

There was also some stuff he wasn't sure about. He didn't know what a mango was, but it smelled nice. Maybe just one, to try it. He stared at the avocados for a long time, trying to figure out if he knew what they were. He felt like he should know that. But he didn't, so he moved on. Then there was… "Hey, Steve?"

He turned around when Steve didn't answer, holding the weird little whatever it was in his hand. "Steve?"

Before he had time to panic, Steve stood up from where he'd been bending over by one of the other tables, hefting a giant bag of potatoes onto his shoulder as he stood. "Yeah?"

Bucky eyed the potatoes as Steve slid them into the bottom of the cart. "That's a lot of potatoes," he commented.

Steve grinned. "Well, you know, you and me, we eat a lot these days. And we gotta feed Sam something too. What did you need?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," he said, still contemplating the potatoes. He guessed two super-soldiers _did_ eat a lot. He hadn't really thought about it yet. "What is this thing?" He held out the little brown probably-fruit.

"It's called a kiwi," Steve said.

"Yeah, the, the sign said that," Bucky said. Something in his gut told him to shut up now that he'd gotten an answer, but he swallowed it down. Steve wasn't going to hit him for not understanding. "But what _is_ it?"

"It's fruit," Steve replied. "They're sweet, kind of tangy." Bucky eyed the little fruit suspiciously. It looked neither sweet, nor tangy, nor appealing in any way. In his experience, fruit only looked like that when it was very, very bad. Why the hell was it furry? "You're not supposed to eat the fuzzy part," Steve added, as if he knew where Bucky's thoughts were. "You cut it open and scoop the middle out." Bucky wasn't convinced and Steve grinned. "You don't have to try it if you don't want to."

Bucky considered a moment longer then set the kiwi back with the others. He'd come to the grocery store in the first place… _and_ he was buying a mango. That was enough adventure for one day.

The vegetables, comfortingly, didn't seem to have changed much from what he remembered. That made things easier. Beyond the produce section was the butchery, and meat was meat. Beef, pork, chicken, fish…he knew what all of that was. He didn't remember buying this much of it all at once, but he knew what it was. Then there was the bakery and dairy section, and bread was bread, cheese was cheese and eggs were eggs. Yes, he'd technically been awake more than Steve had moving into this century, but for all intents and purposes, his memories stopped in 1945 too. There was a lot to get used to. The consistency of simple things was surprisingly soothing.

Although… "Hey, so, I know I've got a lot of holes up here," he said, tapping the side of his head as he watched Steve load a few jugs of milk into the cart. "But that seems really expensive for milk." Sure, he kept forgetting things like his sister's name or how to tie his shoes, but sixty-two cents for a gallon of milk, he could remember. Four dollars seemed like a lot, although, to be fair, he had zero concept of what money was worth these days.

Steve huffed a laugh and set the milk down. "You're taking this a lot better than I did."

"What do you mean?"

Steve was smiling, but there was a faint tinge of pink to his cheeks. "I was only out of the ice for a couple of weeks before the thing in New York, but after that I ended up with a place in D.C. Nat helped me set it up. She took me out grocery shopping for the first time this century, and I…kind of…yelled at her about the milk thing."

Bucky felt the corner of his mouth twitching up. "You yelled at Nat?"

Steve's face got redder. "Well not _at_ her exactly, I mean, she didn't set the milk prices. But she was there in front of me, so _kind of_ at her. A hell of a lot had changed in what seemed like a very short time, and, yeah, I snapped a little bit. I think I said something about how it would just be cheaper to buy a cow."

A surprised laugh burst out of Bucky's throat, making Steve look up at him and smile. "Steve Rogers, yelling at someone in a grocery store." He shook his head, chuckling. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Steve yell at someone, and not because his memory was crap.

"She took it really well," Steve said, still smiling. "Although she brings it up whenever she thinks I'm being annoying."

"I should get her to tell me this story," Bucky said. Aside from Sam, Bucky didn't know many of Steve's friends that well. As a group, they were kind of a lot to take. He liked Nat, though. She was calm and easy-going and didn't treat him like she was worried he would break. She also didn't hold the fact that he had shot her against him. (Twice, she said, although Bucky didn't remember the first time.)

The rest of the store was a mixture of old and new—familiar things in new packaging, or more variety of something he'd seen before. There were things that were completely new too—like Pop Tarts, which Steve was shocked when he realized that Bucky had never had any because they hadn't had any in the apartment in the past month. He bought several boxes. By the time the cart was full, Bucky was ready to go home. Steve had gotten his opinion on almost everything that went into the cart, and choices were great, but he'd made more today than he had all week. Between that and the background tension of just knowing lots of people were around, he was ready to be done.

"Oh, hey," Steve said, grabbing something off a shelf as they made their way back to the front. "I realized we haven't had any of this around either. I guess we just forgot to restock last time. You want some?"

Bucky looked at the jar in Steve's hand. "Peanut butter?"

"You used to love it," Steve said, smiling as he remembered something. Bucky wondered what it was.

"Yeah…" Bucky remembered that. He did love peanut butter. It had been a really long time since he'd had any.

"It's okay if you don't like it anymore," Steve said, lowering the jar. "I just thought…" He shrugged.

"No," Bucky said quickly, not wanting Steve to get the wrong idea. "It's, I just, you…" He got flustered easily when he tried to explain things, which frustrated and embarrassed him, which made him more flustered, and it just kept spiraling down from there. He took a deep breath and rubbed the side of his head.

"Okay," Steve said evenly. "Take your time."

It was a couple of minutes before Bucky was able to corral his thoughts. Steve seemed content to wait. Had he always been this patient?

"I think I still like peanut butter," he said at last. It seemed like a stupid thing to get hung up on, but he wasn't going to say that. Steve kept insisting that there were no stupid hang-ups. "I would like to get some." He also felt kind of stupid talking slowly in these clipped little sentences, but he didn't want to get tangled up again. "But, I just, I remember that we couldn't keep it around because it made you sick." Even if Steve didn't eat it, he couldn't touch something that had touched it, and sometimes just breathing too close to it made him sick. "And I don't want to…" After everything Steve had done, getting him sick with something so easily avoidable was the last thing he wanted to do.

Steve smiled warmly and nodded, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. "Thank you, Buck. I appreciate that." He held up the jar again. "But I'm not allergic to peanuts anymore. The serum fixed that. Remember?"

Bucky thought for a minute. That's right, the serum hadn't just made him bigger, it had fixed a lot of things, hadn't it? He shook his head. "Sorry. I forgot, I—"

"It's okay," Steve told him.

"It's like…It's like there's two different versions of you in my head," Bucky explained. "I know I had them straight before…well, _before_ , but they get mixed up sometimes."

"I've got a couple of you up here too," Steve said, smiling when Bucky looked up at him.

"That doesn't bother you?" Bucky asked carefully. He knew there was an 'Old Bucky' that Steve remembered—and he remembered him a hell of a lot better than Bucky did. Bucky wanted to be that guy again, but he didn't think all of him was there anymore. 'Old Bucky' was only ever going to come part of the way back, and Bucky was desperately afraid that Steve was going to realize that one day.

Steve shook his head. "The way I see it, Old Bucky and New Bucky…" He trailed off and shrugged. "They're both Bucky, and that's the important part." Bucky ducked his head, his throat suddenly feeling tight. "I might get them mixed up every now and then," Steve continued. "Like you do with Little Steve and Big Steve. We're both something different than what we used to be, but we're still us. We can figure each other out again."

Bucky swallowed down a lump in his throat. It seemed too easy, that Steve was just okay with him the way he was now. But he was using that voice—and Bucky remembered that voice—the one that was soft and gentle and strong that he used when he really meant something. Something in the back of his head said it was still too easy, but that was the part of his brain that hadn't trusted anyone since 1945. He was tired of listening to it. He swallowed again, making sure his voice was steady, and nodded. "Okay," he said softly. That was all he could manage right now, but Steve smiled and got the message. He clapped Bucky on the shoulder, dropped the peanut butter into the cart and moved for the front, giving Bucky a minute to compose himself.

He had his good days and he had his bad days, and he had not been mentally prepared for an emotional moment in the condiment aisle. But it was…it was okay. There was a little knot of tension that he hadn't realized had been coiled up in his chest for the past month until just now, as it unwound. He knew Steve wanted to help him. That's why he came back. And he knew Steve wouldn't give up on him. That's why he stayed. He knew that with his…with his _soul_ , he guessed, but he didn't always know it with his head. His head was all kinds of messed up, and it got in the way sometimes. A lot. It got in the way a lot. But right now, his soul and his head were on the same page. And that was good. That was…It took him a minute to identify that emotion. Was that what peace felt like? That was new. He liked it.

They caught something called an 'Uber' to take them home, because, even for two super-soldiers, there were a lot of groceries to carry. The driver kept glancing furtively back at them the whole way home, which set Bucky's nerves on edge, but when they got out of the car she got out too and blushed to the roots of her hair and sort of squeaked, "you're Captain America, aren't you? Oh, my gosh, I'm sorry I was staring, would it be totally inappropriate if I asked for a selfie?"

Steve smiled and ducked his head and agreed, and the girl squeaked again and Bucky learned that a selfie was a kind of photograph. He smiled as they gathered up the groceries and moved to the elevator. "I do remember," he started as another memory flashed through his head. "You were like a movie star for a while there. Girls and little kids always asking for your autograph. Guess that hasn't changed." Save the world a few times, get your own display in the Smithsonian…seemed only fair. Bucky grinned as the memory continued. "Wasn't there a couple of kids on some farm in the middle of nowhere in France that almost blew our cover because they saw you and started yelling about 'Capitaine Amérique'?"

Steve laughed. "You know what? I forgot about that. I never figured out how they knew who I was."

"Everybody loves the movies, Stevie. And you had comic books and everything," Bucky said, smiling wider. "The little one just about fainted when you let him touch your shield."

Something in Steve's smile changed, and Bucky realized he'd just referred to him by his old nickname. He knew he used to called Steve that a lot, but it always felt forced any time he tried to do it since coming back. This time it had just slipped out naturally. It felt right.

Choosing not to comment on it and make it awkward (which Bucky appreciated), Steve just smiled wider and bumped Bucky's shoulder as they got into the elevator.

Today really had been a good day.

(It got even better when he tasted peanut butter for the first time in seventy years, and stop the presses, Steve was right, Pop Tarts were freaking AMAZING. As was the look on Sam's face when he came home to find Bucky and Steve sitting on the living room floor, Bucky with a half-empty jar of peanut butter and a spoon, and both of them surrounded by foil wrappers and three empty Pop Tart boxes. Priceless.)

* * *


	9. If You Get Lost, You Can Always Be Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little quality time with Bucky and Sam. Starts with some h/c and Sad Bucky until Counselor Sam saves the day. (Timing-wise, this one is still early days after Bucky's return. Probably not more than a week or so after the grocery store chapter.)
> 
> There's some Russian in here, translations for which can be found at the bottom.

* * *

Steve had, very reluctantly, gone off on a quick, overnight mission with Tony and Clint to Chicago. Bucky had repeatedly assured him that he would be fine without him, eventually threatening to punch him if he didn't stop asking if he would be okay and get on the freaking jet. Sam had assured him they would be fine. Bucky was getting a handle on this independence thing, and it wasn't like Sam didn't live in the apartment too. The two of them had gotten over the initial awkwardness born of the multiple attempted murders that had been their first meeting. They actually got along pretty well now. It was a short mission, Tony and Clint needed him, and the two of them would be fine here. Steve really should go.

Twenty-four hours later, Sam was regretting that decision.

The rest of that first day had been great. They'd ordered pizza, watched some Star Trek, and Sam had shown Bucky how the Xbox worked. Once Bucky had apologized profusely for gripping the controller too hard with his metal hand and cracking the casing, he'd started to get the hang of it. He'd even beaten Sam once or twice. They'd gone to bed, Sam hadn't woken up to any screaming in the middle of the night, and when Bucky came out of his room the next morning, he'd looked well-rested. They'd had breakfast, Bucky had read a book, Sam had worked on his taxes, it was going great. Then it all just went to hell.

Sam had been unloading the dishwasher when a very loud crash came from the direction of Bucky's room. This was followed in quick succession by two more crashes and a strangled yell. That was bad. One crash, maybe he'd knocked something over, but that was way too much noise to be anything good. "Hey, Barnes, you okay?" Sam called tentatively. He moved slowly toward the hall, getting no response. "Barnes?" he asked again, carefully peering through the open door into his room.

Bucky was standing in the middle of a room that looked like it had been hit by a tornado. He was staring at the wall to the left of the door, blinking slowly and listing a little to the side, his eyes light years away. Crap, he was having a flashback. Steve usually handled these. Still, Sam was a licensed trauma care specialist. He knew this was probably going to get more intense than what he was used to, but he could handle this. He could totally handle this.

"Barnes?" he asked again, a little louder. He knew better than to touch him. Bucky blinked, and his eyes drifted back over to Sam, and Sam just had time to start backing up as Bucky pulled a knife from God knows where and lunged at him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Sam exclaimed, holding up his hands and backing away, very quickly, down the hall. "Easy, man, it's me!" His eyes cast around for something, anything, to defend himself with.

Bucky stopped short when they got to the living room. Sam kept going until the couch was between them. Confusion grew on Bucky's face as he looked around the room. His mouth opened like he was going to say something, then closed and he shook his head, pressing a hand to his eye.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam asked carefully. Bucky looked up at him, then down at the knife in his hand. His fingers twitched around it, but he seemed unable to let go.

"Chto proiskhodit?" he asked, looking up at Sam. He was breathing faster, and he sounded scared.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Ya ne…" Bucky shook his head. "Ya ne ponimayu. Eto ne…Gde Ya?"

"Bucky," Sam said slowly. It felt a little weird, using his name—they usually referred to each other as 'Barnes' and Wilson'—but that seemed like something he needed right now. "I'm here to help you, dude, I am. It's gonna be okay, but I don't speak Russian." Steve did most of the work when Bucky had his flashbacks, but Sam was pretty sure this was new. Steve had never mentioned the Russian before.

Bucky looked at him, confusion furrowing his eyebrows before comprehension dawned that he was speaking the wrong language. His eyes darted back and forth as he appeared to search his brain. "Ya ne mogu nayti yego!" he exclaimed, voice tinged with fear. "Ya ne mogu nayti nuzhnyye slova! Prosti! Prosti! Ya pytayus, pozhaluysta…" He raised one shaking hand as if to ward Sam off, backing away a few steps. "Prosti," he whispered. He looked terrified.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, okay," Sam said. "It's okay." He wondered how far back Bucky had gone. "I'm not going to hurt you." He moved around the couch slowly, raising his hands to show him there was nothing in them. "It's okay. English isn't coming, huh?" Bucky shook his head slowly, shrinking back against the wall. "Hey, no, it's okay, I'm not mad," Sam assured him. "It's okay. It'll come back when it's ready. But you can understand me?" A small nod. "Okay," Sam said, smiling in what he hoped was an encouraging way. "I can work with that."

He moved a little closer. Bucky eyed him warily. "Are you hurt?" Sam asked. Bucky shook his head. "Good," Sam said. "That's good. Nobody's getting hurt around here. Do you know where you are?"

Bucky's eyes darted behind Sam, scanning the room. He bit his lip and sort of half-nodded, half shook his head.

"Kind of?" Sam interpreted. "Okay. What about you? Do you know who you are?" Bucky's mouth worked like he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. No sound came out. "It's okay, there's not a right answer," Sam said. "Well, okay, no, there _is_ a right answer, but you won't get in trouble if you don't know it." Bucky looked at him for a long moment, then made the same little half-nod thing he'd done before.

"Okay," Sam said with a nod. Well, crap. Hell of a flashback for Steve to be gone for. "How about I tell you, huh? Would that be alright?" He waited for Bucky to nod slowly. He knew to try to give Bucky as many opportunities to make a choice as he could—after flashbacks his brain got stuck in some kind of halfway place that defaulted back to the whole slave/master dynamic. He would follow commands blindly when he got like this, and both Sam and Steve tried not to phrase anything like it was an order.

"Okay," Sam said again. "You want to come in here?" He nodded to the couch. "We can sit down if you want." Bucky considered, then gave a tiny shake of his head. "Alright," Sam said. He figured that had been a test to see if he would get in trouble for disagreeing. "We'll stay here." A little bit of the tension lifted from Bucky's shoulders. Sam didn't have near the connection with him that Steve did, but it still made him sick to his stomach to see what Hydra had done to the guy.

"I'm gonna sit down, though," Sam said, sinking to sit cross-legged on the floor. Not that he was taller than Bucky, but he figured he looked less threatening down here. Bucky seemed to be trusting him this far, so Sam would show some trust back. Bucky looked down at him curiously, then after a long minute, sank down to join him. His back was against the wall, and his knees were drawn up to his chest in a way that made him look smaller than someone his size should.

Sam smiled encouragingly. "Your name," he started. "Is James Buchanan Barnes. Most people call you Bucky. Sound familiar?"

Bucky nodded slowly. "Bucky," he said softly. "Eto zvuchit…" Whatever that meant, it sounded like a question. "Da. Da, Ya dumayu, chto eto pravil'no." Sam could see sparks of memory flashing across his eyes, and he sounded certain this time, although he flinched when he realized he was still speaking Russian.

"It's cool, man," Sam assured him. "So, you're Bucky. You remember that?" Bucky nodded and Sam grinned, getting a tiny smile from Bucky in return. "Awesome! See? We're gonna get through this. Gonna be fine." Yeah. Yeah, this was just great. He was sitting on the floor with an amnesiac master assassin who had the world's worst case of PTSD and had just forgotten an entire language. Fan-freaking-tastic. On the plus side, he probably remembered his name now, and he wasn't trying to stab Sam anymore, so Sam was gonna call it progress.

"Okay. Okay, so, you're Bucky," Sam repeated, just making sure they were on the same page. Bucky nodded again. "And you're in our apartment. You remember that?" Bucky didn't look sure. "You live here," Sam explained. "You and me and Steve. You remember Steve?" Bucky looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Okay, so, you got away from Hydra and went on the run." Bucky's breathing picked up pace at the mention of Hydra, and he looked nervous again, pulling back tighter against the wall. Okay, crap, shouldn't've brought up Hydra. "Hey, no, it's okay…" Sam started, but the freak-out was already starting.

"Soldat na l'du, i l'du i temnote," Bucky muttered. "Slishkom temno, slishkom kholodno, Ya ne khochu vosvrashchat'sya," he said quickly. His flesh hand was shaking, toying with the hair on the side of his head, and he was starting to rock back and forth a little. "Oni khotyat snova slomat' menya. Stul, on bolit, gotovy soblyudat'—net! Net! Ty ne mozhesh' menya snova! Ya ne tvoya mashina! Ya nikogda ne vernus'! Pozhaluysta, ne zastavlyay menya vernut'sya…" The frenzied stream of Russian ended with a pitiful whimper.

"Hey, no, I'm not Hydra," Sam assured him. "No Hydra here. Hydra's the bad guys, and you, me and Steve, we fight them. Together. I'm on your side, dude." Bucky was still rocking. "I promise. You're safe here." Tentatively, Sam put out a hand and rested it on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky immediately stilled and snapped wide, frightened eyes up to look at him and Sam smiled warmly, squeezing his shoulder. "You're safe," he said again. "You're home."

"Home?" Bucky repeated uncertainly, like he wasn't sure what the word meant.

"Home," Sam said again. "You got away from Hydra, and you found Steve here in New York. You live with us now, with people who care about you, and you're safe, and that old Bucky Barnes, you're finding him again. This is where you belong, Bucky. Home."

Bucky dropped the hand that had still been twitching in his hair. "Home," he whispered. His eyes drifted around the room, taking everything in. "I remember," he said softly.

Sam beamed. "Hey, you got the English back!" Bucky smiled and ducked his head, like a kid who'd gotten the answer to a hard question right. He wasn't shaking or rocking anymore, but he was starting to shiver. "You cold?" Sam asked.

Bucky nodded. "You wanna come in here now?" Sam asked, nodding at the living room. "I'll make you some coffee." He figured it was more coming down off the bad memories than the actual temperature of the room, but either way, he was starting to get him back and didn't want to lose him again to a cold-induced panic attack. Those weren't pretty either.

Bucky pushed himself up off the floor and made his way a little stiffly to the armchair he liked. Sam noted happily that he left the knife on the floor. He settled in the chair, pulling his knees up, and Sam handed him a blanket. "Thanks," he said softly.

Neither of them spoke while Sam made the coffee. Bucky was staring again—either out the window or at the wall, Sam couldn't tell. He looked like he was thinking hard, whatever he was looking at, and Sam wondered if he'd come all the way back yet or was still trying to figure things out.

Sam made sure to approach the living room noisily so that Bucky would know he was coming. "Here you go, man," he said, holding out a mug. Bucky took it gratefully, wrapping his hands around it. "So," Sam began, settling down into another chair. "You okay? Still got questions? It's okay if you do. I just want to help you get back on track."

Bucky looked thoughtful for a minute. "Where…Where's Steve? He's supposed to be here…isn't he?"

Sam nodded. "He's usually here, yeah. He went on a mission yesterday. He texted and said he should be back before dinner."

"Okay." Bucky nodded. He took a long drink of his coffee, then looked up at Sam sheepishly. "And who…I'm really sorry, but…who are you?"

Sam almost laughed, but managed to catch himself. "My name's Sam. Sam Wilson." That didn't look like it was ringing any bells. "I live here. Room at the end of the hall."

"No, you, you said that," Bucky said, nodding to himself. "And I…I _think_ I know that. I just…" He rubbed his forehead. "There's just some holes I can't…"

"I know," Sam said.

"You do?"

"This has happened before," Sam told him. Not _exactly_ like this, but still. "No biggie. May take a day or so, but it'll come back," he assured him. Post-flashback, Bucky's brain usually resembled swiss cheese for a while. Sometimes he remembered that the holes would fill back in, but sometimes he didn't. Sam hoped that by making this sound run-of-the-mill, it would keep Bucky from worrying about it.

"Oh. Okay."

Score one for Sam! Not-panicking Bucky was good. He liked not-panicking Bucky.

"You usually call me 'Wilson'," Sam told him. "If that helps. I usually call you 'Barnes'." He smiled. "We like to pick back and forth at each other, but last week, we teamed up and took all of Steve's socks and underwear and froze them into a block in the freezer."

To his surprise, Bucky laughed. "I remember that," he said happily. He shook his head. "Oh, the little punk was so mad. He put it in the bathtub and was using his shield to chip it open." He chuckled and looked up at Sam. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Sam was a little surprised at the bluntness of the statement. They'd never actually put it into so many words, but, "yeah."

Bucky nodded. "I thought so." He sighed. "I'm sorry for…" He trailed off, not really sure how to put the whole situation into words.

"It's cool, man," Sam assured him. "The human brain is a mysterious organ. It calls its own shots and doesn't always handle things the way we want when it's trying to straighten itself out. You heal how you gotta heal."

Bucky gave him a small, grateful smile. He set his coffee cup down and settled down into his chair with a yawn. He usually crashed not long after a flashback—it's like it wore his brain out, whatever the hell it did when he went wherever the hell he went. Actually, if he stayed awake too long afterwards, he wound up with a killer headache.

Sam stood and moved to pick up the empty cup, glad he was nodding off so easily. A bunch of the holes the flashback tore open tended to fill in while he slept it off. And while his memories were still coming back in bits and pieces on their own schedule, a flashback usually left him with a few more than he'd started with once everything settled.

"Hey, Sam?" Bucky said sleepily, before he moved away with the cup.

"Yeah, man? You need something?"

"No," Bucky said. "I just…" He smiled—a real smile. A smile that Sam knew came from the old Bucky Barnes who was starting to find his way back. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

Sam smiled back. "You're welcome."

* * *

If you speak Russian, I should probably apologize for this. I know no Russian, so I was forced to use the Google translator. Hopefully it's close?

_Chto proiskhodit?—_ What's happening?

_Ya ne…Ya ne ponimayu. Eto ne…Gde Ya?—_ I don't…I don't understand. It's not…Where am I?

_Ya ne mogu nayti yego!—_ I can't find it!

_Ya ne mogu nayti nuzhnyye slova! Prosti! Prosti! Ya pytayus, pozhaluysta…—_ I can't find the words you want! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm trying, please…

_Prosti—_ I'm sorry

_Eto zvuchit…Da. Da, Ya dumayu, chto eto pravil'no._ —That sounds…Yes. Yes, I think that's right.

_Soldat na l'du, i l'du i temnote_ —The soldier in the ice, and the ice and the dark.

_Slishkom temno, slishkom kholodno, Ya ne khochu vosvrashchat'sya._ —It's too dark, it's too cold, I don't want to go back.

_Oni khotyat snova slomat' menya. Stul, on bolit, gotovy soblyudat'—net! Net! Ty ne mozhesh' menya snova! Ya ne tvoya mashina! Ya nikogda ne vernus'! Pozhaluysta, ne zastavlyay menya vernut'sya…_ —They want to break me again. The chair, it hurts, ready to comply—no! No! You can't have me again! I'm not your machine! I'm never going back! Please don't make me go back…


	10. The History Books Tend To Skip This Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets sick, and taking care of the grouchy little jerk is something Bucky remembers well. Shamelessly sweet and fluffy. Enjoy.

* * *

No matter how much sleep Bucky got at night, it always took him a little while to get out of bed. The distance between the mattress and the floor wasn't that far, but he had to stare at it for a while and talk himself into it. Once he was vertical, he was good. Steve, on the other hand, would just get up and go. The funny part was, his brain might be awake, but his body took a minute or two to catch up. His eyes wouldn't open all the way and his equilibrium always wanted a few more minutes to sleep, the end result being that he was incapable of walking in a straight line first thing in the morning. (He'd been that way when he was tiny too, and Bucky swore that it just got worse after he got big. That serum really did enhance everything.) It was funny when he was in the apartment, and you could hear him thump into one wall and then the other—and sometimes back into the first wall again—as he veered down the hall on his way to the bathroom. It was hilarious back during the war—canvas in no way took his weight, and on missions the Howlies would get up early to watch and see if Steve would remember to sit down and ride it out or if he'd just wake up and knock his own tent over. The first time Peggy went with them on a mission, she nearly cracked a rib, she was laughing so hard.

Bucky had remembered that all on his own. Sure, it wasn't an identity-defining memory or anything, but he was still pretty pleased with himself for managing it.

So, at first, he thought nothing of it when he heard Steve, who had gotten up later than normal this morning, thump into the wall in the hallway a little louder than usual. Bucky kept eating his cereal, then it occurred to him that he hadn't heard another thump, and he hadn't heard the bathroom door close either. Curious, he pushed away from the kitchen counter. "Steve?" he called, moving into the hallway.

Curiosity gave way to concern as he rounded the corner and saw Steve on the floor. "Steve!" He rushed over, dropping to his knees beside his friend. "Steve, are you okay?"

Steve, for his part, looked just as surprised to find himself on the floor as Bucky was. "Bucky?" he replied, squinting glassy eyes up from where he was slouched against the wall. "Bucky! Hey! Hey, Bucky," he rambled, smiling and reaching up to pat Bucky's cheek a little too forcefully. "No, I'm, 'm _fine_ ," he insisted, attempting and failing to push himself back up. "M'okay. I just, I hit th' wall again, an' then I, I just los' my balance 's all. Help me up?"

The slurred words and the drunken rambling were doing nothing to convince Bucky that Steve was fine. He'd come in late last night from a mission and gone straight to bed—had he gotten hurt? Was this a really bad concussion or something? But, no, if he'd gotten hurt that badly, they wouldn't've sent him home. Stark's ceiling computer checked for that kind of thing. And Banner was a doctor, he would've made sure Steve was alright. Bucky's concern kicked up another few notches.

Steve was starting to slide closer to the floor, and Bucky reached out to keep him steady. He could feel the heat coming off of him before his flesh hand touched Steve's skin. Even his metal hand could feel it. "Steve, you're not okay, you're burning up." So, maybe not hurt, but sick, and it had to be a hell of a bug to take Steve down.

"'s hot in here," Steve agreed, nodding his head clumsily.

"Okay," Bucky said, trying not to panic and searching his brain for what to do. "Okay. Let's get you off the floor, alright?"

"'kay."

It was a good thing Bucky had that super-soldier strength too, because Steve was no help in getting himself to his feet. (Though he did try.) With Steve leaning heavily against him, Bucky moved back into the living room, lowering Steve to lay down on the couch. It looked like the twenty-foot journey had exhausted him. He turned on the ceiling fan, hoping it would do a little to cool him down, then went into Steve's room and got his phone. His first instinct was to call Sam—but, no, Sam hadn't gone on that mission. Sam had gone to bed before Steve had gotten back and left for work before Steve got up. He probably didn't know anything was wrong.

Okay. Okay. Bucky took a deep breath as his stomach twisted itself into a knot. Banner. He could call Banner. Banner was a doctor, he'd been on the mission, Bucky could call him. The knot in his stomach twisted a little tighter. He could talk to Sam—he knew Sam. Banner was…Banner was a nice guy, Bucky knew that, but he didn't _know_ him, and it was too early in the day for this and he hadn't been prepared to talk to strangers and he felt like he was going to throw up, but, no. No. Something was wrong with Steve. Banner could help. Bucky could do this.

He breathed slowly and deliberately as he scrolled through Steve's phone, took a deep breath as his finger hovered over Banner's number, then he hit it before he could talk himself out of it.

It rang a few times before Banner picked up. "Hey, Steve," he answered with a yawn. "What's up?" Bucky froze for a moment. "Steve, you there?" Banner asked.

"No," Bucky said, hoping Banner didn't hear that little waver he felt as he spoke. "No, it—it's Bucky."

"Bucky?" Banner asked. "Oh, okay. Yeah, what's, ah, what's going on?"

"Steve's sick," Bucky said quickly, getting to the point of the call before he could chicken out. "He's got a fever and he…he's sick," he repeated, hating how pitiful he knew he must sound.

"Oh. Yeah, that's…" Banner started, not sounding nearly as worried as Bucky thought he should be, but then trailing off as though something was occurring to him. "He didn't tell you about the mission, did he?"

"No," Bucky replied shortly, anger with Banner for knowing something was wrong and sending him home and anger with Steve for not mentioning it surging up and then getting squashed back down by the need to figure out what was wrong and the reminder to breathe and not pass out while in the middle of an unplanned conversation with someone he didn't really know.

He could hear Banner sigh into the phone. "Okay. Okay, yeah, I can see why you'd be concerned. So, um, the guy we were after had some pretty nasty stuff cooked up in his lab. He, ah, he set some of it airborne before we got him, and Steve took a pretty good hit." Bucky felt that urge to throw up again rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down as he realized Banner was still talking. "—got back to the Tower, J.A.R.V.I.S. and I checked him out thoroughly, and he's gonna be okay. It's obviously some pretty heavy stuff to be able to take Steve down like this—would've killed anyone else—but the serum's doing its job and protecting him. It may take him a little while to get back on his feet, but his body just needs time to fight it off, and he's not contagious or anything, which is why we thought it would be okay to send him home. I'm sorry about this, man, he was supposed to fill you in when he got back."

Bucky nodded, then remembered Banner couldn't see it. "So, he's gonna be okay?"

"He is," Banner assured him. "There's some extra-strength stuff that should be in his bag to help with some of the symptoms, but he mostly just needs a lot of rest. If you want, we can bring him back over to the Tower," Banner offered.

Bucky considered. He appreciated Banner's wording—offering to take over if this was too much for Bucky to handle, but not implying that he thought it would be. "You're sure he'll be okay?" Bucky asked again. Not that he didn't trust Banner—he didn't know him well, but Steve trusted him—but he wanted to make the best decision.

"Absolutely," Banner replied, not sounding offended that Bucky would ask again.

"Okay," Bucky said. "It's—I can look out for him." And he could. He remembered sick Steve. "If you're sure…"

"I'm sure," Banner said. "And, hey, if you need anything, give me a call."

"Okay. Thank you. I'm sorry, I—" Knowing it would be alright, he felt bad now for bothering Banner and waking him up.

"Don't worry about it, man," Banner assured him. "I know he's not normally sick, so it was a good call."

Bucky nodded again. "Thanks."

Banner ended the call, which saved Bucky the trouble of needing to remember how (although he thought it was the red button). Okay. It was funny what he remembered and what he didn't and what he got mixed up sometimes. Because he did remember Steve explaining to him the effects of the serum, back in some tent in Italy what felt like a million years ago, and he knew it meant Steve wasn't supposed to get sick anymore. That was pretty solidly set in his brain, and so of course he was going to panic when Steve caught something bad enough to break past the super-serum's defenses. But also pretty solidly set in his brain was tiny little sick Steve—at times better than the big guy was. There'd been twenty-five years of the little fella and only two of the big one, after all. And so, in some ways, sick Steve felt…was it wrong to say familiar? Bucky's panic was replaced by something that it took him a moment to identify as confidence. Because, yeah, it sucked that Steve was sick, and Bucky hated it as much as he did back before, but sick Steve…Sick Steve, Bucky could do. He knew this.

He went to the kitchen and started filling little bags with ice and wrapping them in dish towels. First thing he needed to do was to get Steve cooled down. Steve was still sprawled across the couch, staring at the ceiling with half-open, glazed-over eyes and watching the rotation of the ceiling fan.

"Hey, Steve," he said, nudging Steve's leg aside with his hip so that he could sit down next to him. "How're you feeling?"

It looked like it took a little bit of effort for Steve to tear his eyes away from the fan. "Oh, hey, Buck," he said with a little smile. "M'alright." He sniffed. "Little dizzy."

"Uh huh. Still hot?"

"Yeah," Steve nodded sleepily.

"Okay. Let's see if this helps, huh?" Bucky said, moving to place the bags of ice under Steve's arms and along his side. He wasn't wearing a shirt, which was good for now, but he was probably going to get cold later. Bucky made a mental note to grab some blankets to keep nearby. Steve shivered a little as Bucky tucked a bag of ice against his neck then relaxed. "Better?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Good. Now, I want you to drink some water, okay?" Steve moved to sit up, but Bucky pushed him back down. "No, stay there, I've got a straw." He held the glass close to Steve and nudged his lips with the straw. "Hey, whoa, slow down, alright? Don't want you puking this back up." Steve complied and drank slower, and Bucky held the glass steady until he was done. "Why don't you get some more sleep, okay?" he asked, reaching over to brush Steve's damp hair off his forehead with his left hand. Steve leaned into the touch, and Bucky realized the cool metal probably felt good against his warm skin. He smiled and left his hand resting on his forehead. "When you get better, we're gonna have a talk about post-mission communication."

Steve blinked his eyes part of the way open again. "I was…There was somethn' I was s'posed to tell you."

"Yep."

Steve squinted. "You're mad, aren't you?"

Bucky smiled. "I'm gonna have to thump you a little bit, but I'll wait 'til you get better. Right now you just get some rest, okay?"

Steve hummed a little and closed his eyes, and Bucky smiled and left his hand on his forehead until he was sure he was asleep.

It took him a little while to find Steve's go-bag—he'd dropped it by the front door instead of taking it to his room—but the medicine Banner had mentioned was there, tucked into a little pocket on the side. He brought it back to the living room and read all the labels while he finished his cereal. Steve's super-soldier metabolism ran pretty warm normally, so it wasn't really a surprise that with the added fever, the ice didn't take long to melt. Bucky crushed up some of the pills Banner had sent in a glass of water and woke Steve up enough to drink it. He changed the ice out two more times before the fever swung the other way and Steve started to shiver.

Bucky started unfolding blankets from the stack he'd set by the couch—it took two to cover Steve's shoulders and his feet when he was stretched out like that—and tucked them around him, reaching up to turn off the fan before nudging Steve toward the back of the couch so he could sit down by his head, stretching his legs down alongside him. He didn't work quite the same way as Steve, but normally he ran a little warmer than your average guy too, and he smiled when Steve shifted in the cushions and rolled to lean against Bucky's leg.

They spent the rest of the morning like that until Bucky got up to make lunch. Steve was incredibly grumpy about being woken up to eat, but his brain was still fuzzy from the fever and he didn't really argue. Memory told Bucky to appreciate that while it lasted—when he was coherent, sick Steve was stubborn and argumentative, sometimes just for the hell of it and not for any actual reason. Bucky remembered Steve accusing him of having a terrible bedside manner, but there was only so far being nice would take you with sick Steve.

His skin felt a little cooler, but Bucky made him take more of Banner's medicine before letting him go back to sleep. He also took the opportunity to have him put on a hoodie—he hadn't wanted to try to wrestle the sleeping giant into one earlier. He faded out before he got his left arm all the way through the sleeve and flopped back down onto the couch, so Bucky had to unfold his arm and work it out of the sleeve for him. Steve mumbled something that could have been a 'thank you' before passing all the way out again.

Based on the medicine Banner had sent back, Bucky guessed that he should expect some puking in Steve's future, so he grabbed the kitchen trashcan before resuming his place on the couch next to Steve. He kept the TV on low volume, one ear on Star Trek and one on Steve, reaching over to pat his head whenever he shifted or let out a little moan. He turned the TV off when Steve started to whimper. Bucky recognized a nightmare when he saw one, although usually _he_ was the one whimpering and shaking. He didn't remember Little Steve having trouble with nightmares before, even when he was sick, but Little Steve hadn't had much to fuel them, either. Big Steve, on the other hand, had plenty.

"Nnh," Steve groaned into Bucky's leg, shifting uncomfortably. "No. No," he whispered.

"Steve?" Bucky asked, placing a hand carefully on Steve's head. He felt warm again, whether from the fever or just agitation, it was hard to say.

"No," Steve moaned, mumbling something else Bucky didn't catch. "Bucky! Bucky, no!"

Bucky jerked his hand back as though he'd been burned, pulling away from the couch to sit on the coffee table. If Steve was reliving what he thought he was reliving, he didn't want to scare him. They hadn't talked about the helicarrier incident since Bucky came back—not really. He'd tried to apologize for it and Steve had shut him down, firmly saying that he didn't blame him for any of it and that it was okay. He'd sounded like he meant it, and Bucky had slowly started to believe him, trying to accept that forgiveness. It hurt knowing that somewhere in there, Steve _was_ afraid of him, but Bucky supposed he deserved that.

"Bucky, no!" Steve muttered again, twisting a sickening knot in Bucky's stomach. "No! Hold on!" Wait, what? He hadn't been wiped since being on the helicarrier, so, unfortunately, he remembered it all clearly, and that didn't sound right. Hold on to what?

"I'm coming," Steve panted, twisting in his blanket. "Take—take my hand! Bucky!" he yelled, startling Bucky with the abrupt shift in volume. Bucky was still trying to figure out what Steve was seeing when tears started leaking from his still-closed eyes. "I'm sorry," Steve whispered. "I'm so sorry, Buck, please, don't be…I couldn't…I'm sorry."

A whole different kind of knot twisted around in Bucky's stomach this time, even as his hand reached out automatically to wipe away Steve's tears with his sleeve. Steve wasn't seeing the helicarrier. Steve was seeing the train. In dreams and flashbacks and nightmares, Bucky could remember his fall, the pain and the terror and the ice and the snow. He could remember going into cryo for the first time, waking confused and afraid after God only knew how long with a metal arm and the face of Arnim Zola—the face that terrified him more than anything else—hovering over him. He could remember Steve's horrified face, his outstretched hand, disappearing out of view as he fell. He remembered all of it when he was asleep and there was nowhere to run. But when he was awake, what should have been his own death was just a blur of painful white noise. He didn't think about it because he couldn't remember it. But Steve obviously did.

"I'm sorry," Steve whispered again.

"Shh," Bucky soothed, moving his hand up to stroke Steve's hair. "It's okay, Stevie. It's okay." Steve's whimpers died away and he blinked open watery, frightened eyes. "It's alright," Bucky said with an encouraging smile now that Steve could see him.

"B—Bucky?" Steve asked, eyes casting around the room and obviously surprised not to find himself clinging to the outside of a train.

"Yeah, Steve, I'm here," Bucky said gently. "It's okay."

"Wh—" Steve stuttered, a clumsy hand coming out from the folds of the blanket to paw at Bucky's hand still going through his hair. "You—you're not…"

"I'm okay, Steve," Bucky assured him. And though his heart clenched at the fear and confusion on Steve's face and the realization that Steve had been carrying this guilt for nearly seventy years, it felt warmed at the same time by this very tangible reminder of how much Steve cared about him, even after everything that had happened. He wrapped his hand around the back of Steve's head. "It's okay. You saved me." And he had. Not on the train, true, but Steve had found him and Steve had saved him—not just his body, but his soul. "You saved me," he said again, voice suddenly a little tight.

"You're okay?" Steve asked in a small voice, wrapping his hand around Bucky's wrist.

"I'm okay." Bucky smiled, moving off the table to kneel down next to the couch so Steve didn't have to keep looking up at him. "You know that wasn't your fault, right? What happened on the train?"

"I couldn't reach you," Steve whispered sadly.

"And that wasn't your fault," Bucky said gently. "It was never your fault. And not one time in seventy years have I ever blamed you for it." He never had.

Steve looked at him, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed, and tears started welling in his eyes again, but he was smiling a little bit. "I'm glad you're okay, Buck," he said in a small voice.

"I'm okay," Bucky repeated. "And you're gonna be okay too." Steve's eyes were drooping again, so Bucky's fingers resumed their brushing of his hair, and his eyelids fluttered and closed, the little smile lingering on his face. Bucky sighed, patted him gently on the cheek and stood. They were gonna talk about this train thing again when Steve was lucid. Just to make sure he got it.

He stretched out his back and walked to the kitchen, pondering the contents of their pantry. He found some chicken thawing in the fridge and decided to make soup. Steve seemed content to stay asleep while Bucky cut up chicken and carrots and set things boiling, but a retching sound from the living room had him rushing back before he could start washing the dishes. He slid around the couch and tugged Steve's head forward by the hood of his sweater just in time for him to not vomit on the couch. He kept one hand on Steve's forehead, holding his head up as he gagged into the trashcan, the other hand rubbing slow circles on his back.

"I gotcha, Stevie, it's alright," he murmured. "Get it all out, you'll feel better."

When there was nothing coming up but strings of bile, Bucky grabbed one of the abandoned dish towels from the bags of ice and wiped his mouth, then eased him back onto the couch. Steve's cheeks were flushed, from the exertion but also a little bit of embarrassment. "Sorry," he rasped, blinking exhausted eyes up at Bucky.

Bucky smiled and brushed his hair off his forehead. "Don't worry about it. You want some water?"

Steve nodded, and Bucky grabbed the glass from the end table, sliding one hand under Steve's head to prop him up enough to drink.

"Thanks."

"Any time, pal."

After Steve fell back asleep, Bucky finished up in the kitchen, set the soup to simmer and returned to his spot on the couch. Steve drifted in and out, grumbling that Bucky was crowding him on the couch while simultaneously complaining that he was cold, which is why Sam came home to all six feet two inches of America's greatest hero curled up into a ball on one end of the couch under five blankets and sort of on Bucky's lap.

"Hey, guys," Sam said slowly. "What'd I miss?"

"He's sick," Bucky said, nodding down at the top of Steve's head, which was the only thing visible from under the blankets.

"He is?" Sam asked, rounding the couch. "I didn't think he _could_ get sick. How'd that even happen?"

Bucky sighed. "Some mad scientist on their last mission with crazy stuff in his lab."

"Must be a hell of a bug to take him down."

Bucky nodded. "Banner said it would have killed anybody else."

Sam let out a low whistle. "He gonna be okay?"

Bucky nodded again. "Yeah. Banner said he'd be down for a while, but he'll be fine."

"Good," Sam said. He looked back up at Bucky. "Everything going okay?"

Bucky knew he was trying to ask if he was handling this alright, and he nodded. "Sick Steve is nothing new," he told him. He smiled. "He's always easy at the beginning, anyway. Give him another day or two and he's still gonna be sick but he'll be grouchy as hell."

Sam chuckled. "That ought to be interesting."

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Steve was persuaded to sit up enough to eat some soup and take some more medicine before burrowing back down into his pile of blankets. His eyes were starting to look a little brighter, which was good. His breathing was starting to sound kind of wheezy, which was not so good. At least he didn't have the asthma to contend with on top of it all. When Little Steve had gotten sick, that had always been one of Bucky's biggest worries—the illness and the asthma tended to aggravate each other, making it harder and harder for Steve to breathe and ending him up in the hospital on more than one occasion. Now it was just what was starting to sound like an increasing amount of mucus—and not constricting airways on top of that—that he had to try to breathe around. So, that was something.

When Sam left the next morning, both Bucky and Steve were still asleep. Steve was still huddled under his blanket pile on one end of the couch and Bucky was stretched out on the other side. They'd both slept badly—Steve kept waking up to puke and Bucky had stopped counting somewhere around the thirteenth time. He'd pulled in the kitchen and the bathroom _and_ the laundry room trash cans, and Bucky had meant to clean them all out once it seemed like Steve was finally done, he really had, but he'd sat down and closed his eyes for a minute and that had been it.

He woke up surprised that he'd fallen asleep, and it took him a second to remember why he was on the couch. He rolled his eyes when he looked down his metal arm and saw a piece of paper stuck to his bicep with a magnet shaped like a banana. "Real cute, Wilson," he muttered, pulling the note off, smiling a little to himself as he read it. Apparently, Sam had washed out all the trash cans when he had gotten up this morning and they were upside down drying out in the bathtub in case he still needed them. He'd also picked up a bottle of ginger ale while he was out on his run and set it on the counter.

Bucky smiled and put the note on the coffee table and slid carefully off the couch so as not to wake Steve. The all-night vomit-fest had worn him out and he was snoring—thanks to clogged sinuses, very, _very_ loudly—and Bucky figured it was safe to leave him alone long enough to take a shower. He returned the newly-cleaned trashcans to their homes, leaving one by Steve just in case.

The warm water woke him up, and he returned to the living room to find Steve awake and trying and failing to untangle himself from his pile of blankets. "Morning, Steve," he said. When Steve looked up at him he was happy to notice that his eyes were clear. Tired and red and runny, true, but lucid. "How you feeling?" he asked, sitting down on the coffee table.

Steve sniffed. "Alright," he replied. Bucky narrowed his eyes. "What?" Steve protested.

Bucky didn't buy that for a minute, but decided not to antagonize him just yet. "I'm glad you're feeling better. What are you doing?"

Steve finally wrestled himself free of the blankets and sat up. "I was gonna go to the bathroom," he said, and Bucky managed not to laugh at the way the words came out—he was stuffy enough that the letter 'n' was coming out as a 'd', 'm' was 'b' and 't' was just some half little sad noise.

"Alright. Let me help you up," Bucky said, moving to grab his arm, but Steve waved him away.

"I got it," he said, pushing himself off the couch, swaying, and promptly falling over.

"Yeah, looks like it," Bucky said, walking over and reaching down for Steve's hand.

"Shut up," Steve grumbled, scowling as Bucky pulled him carefully to his feet.

Bucky sighed when Steve was upright again, one arm over his shoulder. "Really, Steve?" He'd hit the end table on his way down and blood was trickling out of a cut over his left eyebrow. Steve grunted and said nothing, and Bucky rolled his eyes.

They made it down the hall and Steve pulled away at the bathroom door, holding onto the door handle for support. "I've got this part on my own."

Bucky eyed him skeptically, but nodded. He went back to the kitchen and got the coffee going, arriving back outside the bathroom door just in time to hear the water in the shower come on. "Oh, hell, no," he growled. He rapped sharply on the door. "Steve!" he yelled. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Taking a shower!" Steve called back hoarsely.

"You can't stand up in the living room, you moron, what makes you think you can stand up on wet porcelain?" he yelled.

"I'll be fine, Bucky!"

Oh, this was just great. The last thing he needed was sick, grumpy Steve with a concussion. "Don't make me come in there!"

"You come in here and I'll punch you!"

Bucky growled and rubbed his forehead. He'd been hoping he might get another day out of the compliant version of sick Steve, but that was apparently too much to ask. "At least sit down in the tub!" he called. "'Cause if you fall over and break anything we're going back to the Tower and you're gonna be Tony's problem!" Not that he would actually do that to Steve, but if the punk was gonna start off this stubborn this fast, Bucky wasn't afraid to get threatening.

A long silence was followed a bitter, "Fine!"

Bucky stayed outside the door, keeping an ear out for any sounds of trouble, and was glad when the water finally shut off and nothing had happened. It was quiet for several long minutes, then he heard a tentative, "Bucky?"

He eased the door open to find Steve wrapped in a towel and sitting on the edge of the tub. "I didn't…" Steve sighed. "I left my clean stuff in my room," he muttered.

Bucky smirked. "Need a hand?" Steve's expression was one of severely wounded pride—falling down on the way back to his room would be bad enough—doing it wearing nothing but a towel would have been too much, and was probably what finally prompted him to ask for help in the first place.

Steve glared at him but extended a hand to allow Bucky to pull him up, keeping the other firmly on his towel. He shook as they walked down the hall. Bucky deposited him on his bed and left, wanting to let him keep at least a little bit of dignity by getting dressed himself.

He came back a few minutes later and knocked, pushing the door open when he heard a grunt. Steve had changed into sweatpants and socks that didn't match and was lying face-down on the mattress with one arm in a clean hoodie, having evidently given up on getting it on.

"You're bad at shirts when you're sick," Bucky chuckled, sitting down beside him and pulling him up enough to wrestle him the rest of the way into the sweater.

"Shut up," Steve complained.

"At least you smell better now," Bucky added. He hadn't been going to force him to shower in the wobbly state he was in, but since he'd made it out undamaged, Bucky was glad he'd done it. A night of puking did not make for a particularly fragrant super-soldier.

"Shut up," Steve said again.

Bucky smiled and pulled back the blankets before letting go of Steve, who promptly collapsed onto his pillow. "What're you doing?" he asked when Bucky pulled his feet back up onto the bed and tucked them under the blanket.

"Getting you all the way up here."

"No, I don't need to be in bed."

"Steve, your eyes are shut."

"No, they're not."

"Go back to sleep, punk," Bucky replied. The lack of response told him Steve already had.

He spent a few quiet hours in the living room with his coffee and a book. Well, relatively quiet, anyway. Steve's congested snoring was loud enough to be heard from his room, punctuated by rounds of coughing and brief silent interludes. The cycle was rhythmic enough, Bucky found himself subconsciously timing it.

When one of the silences stretched on longer than normal, Bucky started listening more attentively, and he closed his eyes and sighed when it was broken by a muffled thump. He walked around the couch and there was Steve halfway down the hall. On the floor. Again. "What are you doing?" Bucky asked, standing over him as he pushed himself up to lean against the wall.

"Getting up," Steve replied shortly.

"Why aren't you in bed?"

"I'm bored," Steve whined. "I don't want to be in bed."

"What are you, like, nine?" Bucky asked. He shook his head and leaned down to grab Steve's arm. "You could have at least asked for help," he told him, pulling him to his feet.

"I had it," Steve insisted, coughing loudly.

"Right," Bucky nodded, steering them back towards the living room. "You were bored, so you thought you'd lay on the floor in the hall for a change of scenery?"

"Shut up," Steve complained. "I got dizzy, alright?"

"No kidding." Bucky lowered him to sit on the couch and tossed a couple of clean blankets at him. He was already starting to shiver. "Here." He handed him some of the pills Banner had sent. "Take those and see if it helps your breathing any. What do you want to eat?" he asked, walking back over to the kitchen.

"Not hungry," Steve replied.

"Not what I asked," Bucky shot back. Steve said nothing. Bucky shook his head and decided to go with toast. After throwing up what had looked like everything he'd ever eaten, Steve needed to get some food in him. Toast was bland and shouldn't bother his stomach if it was still queasy. On his way back to the couch he grabbed the ginger ale Sam had brought.

"I said I wasn't hungry," Steve snapped, leaning forward and coughing into his elbow. He was leaning against the back of the couch, still mostly upright.

"And I said I didn't ask if you were hungry," Bucky repeated. "Drink that, it'll help your stomach," he said, pouring a glass of ginger ale. He pointed at the toast. "Eat that, you need food and you'll feel better." Steve continued to glare and Bucky glared back. "I'm not asking, Stevie. You eat it on your own or I'll make you."

Steve stared at him for a long moment before sullenly picking up a piece of toast. "You're mean when I'm sick," he complained.

"Well, you're a punk when you're sick," Bucky replied. Maybe he was a little short-tempered right now, but he hadn't slept well and Steve was trying his patience. "Were you this irritating when you were little and sick?"

Steve looked up at him and, to Bucky's surprise, huffed a short laugh. "Probably," he admitted. "I was never very good at being sick, was I?"

Bucky smiled. "For as often as you did it, you were surprisingly bad at it."

Steve smiled back. "Well, you know, you were always there to take care of me, so…Did I ever thank you for that?"

Bucky's smile softened. "You never needed to."

Steve blushed a little and ducked his head. "Well, thanks anyway."

"You're welcome," Bucky replied. He nudged Steve's shoulder. "Eat your toast."

Steve laughed, which made him cough, but he ate the toast.

Bucky smiled, warmed by Steve's appreciation. He'd never needed thanks for looking out for his friend, but it was still nice to hear. And it gave him a little more patience when Steve inevitably got grumpy again. (He really was a terrible patient.)

It took them the rest of the day to get through three episodes of Star Trek. Steve kept falling asleep then coughing himself awake and insisting Bucky back it up so he didn't miss anything. After having seen the middle of _The City On The Edge Of Forever_ four times, Bucky just started hitting the pause button whenever Steve looked like he was fading.

"It wasn't _that_ dingy during the Depression, was it?" Steve wondered, gesturing at the TV.

"Not that I remember. I mean, I don't know how much stock I'd put in my memory," Bucky added. "But I'm gonna say no."

"I know our clothes were kinda ratty," Steve recalled. "And we didn't always have heat in the apartment, but it wasn't all gloomy like this."

Bucky nodded. "The more I think about it, the more I'm getting this…" He wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. "Why does the Depression smell like lemons? What is that?"

Steve smiled. "It was the soap your ma used when she cleaned. You didn't have a lot of money either, but the Barnes house was _never_ dingy."

They finally made it to the end of that episode. Steve drifted off for a while after that. He also kept kicking Bucky until he moved off of the couch and over to the arm chair.

"Do aliens really look like that?" Bucky asked during _Arena_.

"Maybe?" Steve yawned. "I've only ever come across the one kind…"

Bucky moved back over to the couch when he saw him shivering under the blanket. He tossed another blanket over him and a half-asleep Steve huddled closer to his leg, trying to get warm. Bucky shook his head, but just paused the episode and picked up his book.

Steve got really snippy again during _The Devil In The Dark_ , back to complaining that Bucky was crowding him while, at the same time, not wanting him to move and take the heat with him, which led to a shoving match that somehow ended with Steve accidentally punching Bucky in the jaw. It was a pretty pathetic punch—for Steve, anyway—of the non-bone-breaking variety, but it still hurt. Steve apologized, but Bucky moved over to the chair anyway. A pitiful, "I'm sorry I hit you, Bucky. Please come back, I'm cold," brought him back to the couch before they got to the middle of the episode.

They were just starting a fourth one when Sam came home. "Hey, guys," he greeted. He quirked an eyebrow in puzzled amusement as he walked into the living room. "Do I want to know why you're sitting on Steve?" he asked.

"Sam, get him off me," Steve whined, turning his head and looking pitifully up at their friend.

"Don't fall for those sad eyes, Wilson," Bucky warned.

"I'm still not sure what's going on," Sam pointed out.

" _Someone_ ," Bucky said with a pointed look at Steve. "Keeps trying to get off the couch."

"And that's bad because…" Sam asked.

"What happened last time you tried to walk somewhere, Steve?" Bucky asked. Steve muttered something and Bucky poked him in the shoulder. "I don't think Wilson heard that."

"I fell over," Steve mumbled.

"And?" Bucky pressed.

"And hit my head on the end table. Again." Apologetic though he had been for hitting Bucky, Steve had kept getting grouchier since then. Bucky had gotten up to go to the bathroom and Steve had tried to go to the kitchen and get a drink, making it about two steps before going down and hitting the same end table he'd hit earlier. He had a large band-aid over his eyebrow now. He'd been undeterred, however, even after Bucky got back. After his third attempt, Bucky had had enough and pinned him to the couch and sat on him. And if Steve was too weak to push him off right now, well, too bad for him. He wasn't going anywhere.

Sam smiled. "Inner ear thing, huh?"

Bucky nodded. "He hasn't been able to stay vertical since he woke up yesterday."

" _He_ is right here, you know," Steve said grumpily, coughing into the couch.

"And _he_ is going to stay there," Bucky replied.

Sam's smile widened. "Long day, huh?" His eyes narrowed as he caught the bruise on Bucky's chin. "What happened to your face?"

Bucky looked down at Steve, clearing his throat expectantly when he said nothing.

"I punched him," Steve said quietly.

Sam's eyes went wide, then he bit his lip and looked down, trying very hard not to laugh.

"Told you he gets moody when he gets sick," Bucky said, smirking.

"History books leave that part out, huh?" Sam chuckled.

"I _said_ I was sorry," Steve pouted, only making Sam laugh more.

"Will you let him up if I make you guys some dinner?" Sam asked, still chuckling.

"I will if he'll eat it," Bucky said.

"Do I have a choice?" grumbled Steve.

"Nope," Bucky told him cheerfully.

They watched some more of the episode quietly for a few minutes as Sam started on dinner.

"Hey, Buck?" Steve said.

"Mm?"

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"I know you didn't mean to hit me, Steve," Bucky assured him.

"No, not for that," Steve corrected. "Well, yes, for that, but also for just…I'm a jerk when I'm sick. I know that. I don't try to be, I just, I don't know, I'm sorry," he said sincerely, pausing to cough. "And I'm not just saying that 'cause I want you to get off of me." He smiled apologetically. "You take a lot of crap from me, and I know you're just trying to help."

Bucky smiled. "Well, someone has to."

"Bucky, I'm being serious."

"I know. And if we're being serious, this has been…" He trailed off and shook his head, huffing a small laugh. "Man, you sure know how to twang my last nerve, but all of this…It's all stuff I remember. I remember you being sick and I remember taking care of you." This had been something unexpected, but unlike all the other unexpected things around here, this one hadn't freaked him out. Because he knew how to do this. He smiled down at Steve. "I remember this, and it's nice to feel like I know what I'm doing for once, even if you're just as much of a pain now as you were then. But I didn't it mind then and I still don't now." He smirked. "Although, you do hit harder than you used to."

Steve blushed a little bit, but he smiled. "Thanks for putting up with me."

"Any time, pal." He knew Steve meant it, and he knew that before Steve got better, he would get grumpy and mean again, and then he'd apologize again and mean that too. And Bucky would get frustrated and irritated with him again, but he'd meant it when he said he didn't mind. That's just how it worked, and Bucky was content to be able to remember that and to take care of his friend. "Any time."

* * *


	11. Shut Up And Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Alright, this one's a little different-We're starting with Steve's POV, then switching to Bucky in the middle and back to Steve again for the end. It's fun, it's silly, it's got guest appearances from the rest of the Avengers, and Bucky dances to Nicki Minaj. What more could you ask for?

* * *

"I'm ninety-seven years old, Steve," Bucky said in a longsuffering voice. "You'll be gone for three days. I'll be fine."

Steve sighed. He'd gone on a few missions since Bucky had come back, and Bucky had handled it well. (Even that one time he'd had a major flashback, forgotten how to speak English and tried to stab Sam had turned out okay.) Sam had gone on missions too, but this was the first time they would both be gone. Bucky had never been left alone since he came back.

"I can do this, Steve," Bucky said. "I _need_ to do this. I need to know that this is something I can handle on my own."

Steve nodded. Bucky was right. He'd come so far in finding himself again and regaining his independence. This was a big step, but it was a necessary step, and Bucky could do it. He didn't always move at the pace Steve wanted, but he was very good at knowing when he was ready for things and making himself do them. He had this. Steve didn't know why he suddenly felt like a dad sending his kid off to school for the first time. Bucky wasn't a child. Through all of this, Steve had never looked at him that way, and if Bucky knew that that thought was crossing Steve's mind right now, he would probably punch him.

"You're right," he said. "I know. Sorry, I just…"

"You worry," Bucky finished for him. "And you hover." He smirked. "You came by that honestly, though, so I'll let it slide." That got a smile out of Steve. It was probably as close as Bucky was ever going to get to admitting that he'd been a worse mother-hen than Steve ever had. "But stop it," he finished, and his tone was light, but he was serious. "I'll be fine. And I promise to call you if something goes wrong."

"Okay." Steve looked forward to the day that Bucky would join them on missions—and not just because he wouldn't have to worry about leaving him behind. He and Bucky had been back to back in fights since they were six. He'd missed that. And Bucky had spoken tentatively about the future and joining the Avengers some day, but he still wasn't ready to face combat. Not yet.

"And by 'things going wrong', you'd better not mean like what happened last time I left," Sam put in, exiting the hallway with a go-bag slung over his shoulder. "I don't want to come home to find out you've set any more of my appliances on fire." It might've sounded a little brusque, but Steve knew Sam was only ever sarcastic with Bucky when he thought things were fine—which was more and more often these days. That was probably a good thing.

Bucky grinned mischievously. "You know, since I bought the new one, I'm pretty sure it's _my_ toaster."

"Fine. Set your toaster on fire all you like, but everything else better be in one piece when we get back," Sam said, smiling.

"See you in a few days, Buck," Steve said, picking up his own bag and moving to follow Sam.

"Be careful, punk," Bucky called from behind him.

"He'll be fine, Steve," Sam told him as they walked down the stairs.

"I know he will," Steve said. "But what if he…I don't know, what if he has a flashback or something and there's no one around?"

"That is a possibility," Sam admitted. "But he wanted to do this, and it'll be good for him. Besides, I know you've got Clint checking up on him."

"Yeah." He did feel better knowing that Clint was around, even if he was over at the Tower. Clint was still benched for a bad ankle. He was walking on it fine, but the pain medication made him sleepy, in a comically abrupt way. It was funny when they found him sleeping in random spots on the floor around the Tower, but passing out mid-combat would not have been nearly as entertaining. "Alright. Let's go take out a death-ray."

"It's so cliché," Sam said, grinning. "Why even build a death ray? I feel like I'm in a comic book or something."

"You didn't feel like that already?" Steve asked with a grin.

* * *

As outwardly confident as he'd been with Steve, internally, Bucky had been less sure he'd be alright on his own. But, like he'd told Steve, he needed to do this—just to know that he could—and he'd been pleasantly surprised that he'd been doing alright.

What he hadn't been expecting, though, was this feeling of loneliness. He'd been on his own for nearly seventy years—when he'd been conscious, anyway. He figured three days would be no big deal. But he'd really gotten used to that feeling of always having someone around. That constant companionship that had been so foreign at first was now something he relied on. Something he missed when he didn't have it. And he realized with a start that he'd always missed it. The Winter Soldier had been lonely too. He hadn't known the word for it, and wouldn't have been allowed to express it anyway, but he hadn't liked being alone.

So, when Barton called and invited him to come over to the Tower, it wasn't as irritating as he would have thought it would be.

"Steve told you to check up on me, didn't he?" he asked. It was still a little irritating, though.

"He did tell me to be available," Clint admitted. "But that's not what this is, man, I swear. I am so _bored_. Please come over and do something with me. Anything."

Bucky couldn't stop himself from smiling at that. "Yeah, okay. It's pretty quiet around here too." Which is how he found himself eating pizza and being cajoled into playing some sort of dancing video game with Clint Barton.

"Now, J.A.R.V.I.S. has promised not to record this," Clint said. "Right, J.A.R.V.I.S.?"

"You have my word, sir," the ceiling said. "Mr. Stark will never know."

"See?" Clint said. "It's just for fun. You wanna give it a try?"

Bucky eyed the remote in his hand. "I still don't understand how I'm supposed to dance with this."

"You just hold it," Clint said, demonstrating. He slipped the little strap around his wrist. "You don't even push the buttons or anything. You just hold it, and then, see the person on the screen? The hand that's the glowy one, that corresponds to the one you're holding the remote with. You just follow the moves. We'll start with an easy one."

Still a little confused, Bucky mimicked Clint's position, eyes on the screen as the colorful figure started to dance. He felt hopelessly lost at first, but about halfway through the song, it clicked that the little figures on the bottom of the screen showed the upcoming moves, and he was able to follow along a little better. The score at the end announced that Barton had absolutely crushed him, but he thought he got it now. And realizing there was a scoreboard appealed to a competitive streak that hadn't shown itself much since coming home.

"Alright," he said. "Let's try another one." He cocked a challenging eyebrow at Clint, who smirked back. The game was on.

* * *

Steve had texted Bucky once they were on the Quinjet heading home, and was managing not to worry that he hadn't responded. Bucky was pretty terrible at actually keeping up with his cell phone—he knew how to use it, but he had a tendency to leave it somewhere and forget it. They landed at the Tower, and decided to help carry down some of the more delicate pieces of the dismantled death ray that Tony didn't trust to the bots.

"Is that music?" Bruce asked as they passed through the living quarters.

"Clint likes to play his stereo loud when no one's around," Tony said.

Natasha smirked. "I don't think Clint listens to Nicki Minaj."

Curious, they set down their cargo and followed the music around to the entertainment area. What they found shocked all of them into silence. Their backs to the door, Clint and Bucky were playing some sort of video game—a colorful figure on the big screen was dancing wildly, and they were following her moves, small blinking remotes held high in the air.

"Get outta my space, Barnes!" Clint yelled, narrowly avoiding a collision with Bucky.

"Wouldn't be in your space if you'd stay on your side of the room!" Bucky retorted, not losing time with the music and executing a frankly impressive hip-shaking-flowing-into-a-high-kick-thing.

Sam made a choking noise next to Steve that dancers did not hear over the music.

The music faded into silence, and Nat slowly started clapping. Bucky and Clint spun around abruptly. "Wow," she said.

"Hey, guys," Clint said casually. "How was the mission?" Bucky was looking a little bit like a deer in the headlights.

"Uh uh," Sam said, shaking his head. "Don't think you can act all normal after that."

"Clint, I've got to say, I'm embarrassed for you," Tony said, shaking his head. "You know it's 2015, right? An original Wii? Really?"

Clint smirked, turning to Bucky. "He's just saying that cause he sucks at this game."

Bucky smiled and Tony huffed, affronted. "I do not suck!"

"Oh, yeah? Prove it, Iron Man," Clint said, holding out his remote.

Thor beamed. "Excellent! A challenge!"

"I don't need to—" Tony protested, but Thor was already shoving him forward.

"No, no! It is a matter of honor! You must!" he insisted.

Tony sighed. "Fine. You're going down, Barton."

Clint's grin turned practically evil. "Oh, no. Since you say you don't suck, you're going up against the reigning champ." He slapped his remote into Tony's palm. "And that's not me."

All eyes in the room shot to Bucky, who held out his arms and inclined his head in a little bow of invitation. An excited murmur ran through the rest of the group, and Steve heard Nat and Sam hastily placing bets with Rhodey and Bruce.

"That hardly seems fair," Tony said confidently, evidently not seeing Bucky as much of a threat.

"It's probably not," Bucky replied with a thoughtful sniff, pretending to study his fingernails. He looked up with a wicked grin. "Because I'm awesome. Bring it on, Stark."

Steve grinned and leaned over to Nat to place ten dollars on Bucky. Clint sidled over and leaned back against the counter. "It's hardly a fair bet, but give me twenty on Barnes," he said, leaning down to snag a water bottle out of the mini-fridge.

"You guys have fun?" Steve asked.

"Yeah, he came over this morning. We had pizza and then did this. I mean, I know you said he was the swing dance champ, like, seventy years ago, but holy crap, that man can dance!"

Steve chuckled.

"Seriously," Clint pressed. "I mean, Nat knows, I'm not half bad at this one myself, but once he figured out the mechanics of the thing, he cleaned the floor with me. I haven't won in, like, four hours."

Steve smiled. Bucky had been a great dancer back in the day. Girls were lining up to dance with him. Sure, it wasn't any kind of dancing like this, but it looked like he'd never lost the rhythm.

They all clapped and cheered, shouting encouragement and insults, and Tony cursed and Bucky smiled serenely and absolutely demolished him. Nat went next, and she gave Bucky a run for his money, but didn't quite pull off a victory. Bucky sat out for a while after that, drinking a bottle of water and laughing as Steve and Sam gave it a try and Steve lost spectacularly. Rhodey cleaned the floor with Bruce, and Thor was even worse than Steve, but was by far more enthusiastic than anyone else.

"Still haven't learned how to dance, huh?" Bucky teased when Steve sat down. Tony and Thor were gearing up for a round in front of them.

"Two left feet," Steve agreed. "I don't think the serum could undo that. Bet I could beat Tony, though."

"Well, sure," Bucky agreed. "But I don't know that's saying much."

"Hey!"

Bucky shrugged and grinned, taking another drink of water. "Just calling it like I see it, Steve. A spade's a spade."

"You're a jerk, you know that?" Steve said, smiling broadly. It was great seeing Bucky so happy, so confident again. And this was…This was fun. Loud, silly, pointless _fun_. Steve hadn't done anything like this in a long time.

Bucky tilted his head in agreement. "I'm a jerk that can dance, though, Stevie. I am a jerk that can dance."

* * *

_You can fill in with any Nicki Minaj song you like, but I like to think they were dancing to Super Bass._


	12. Breaking The Habit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by something I found on Google, that, as best as I can tell, was first a short post on checkthemargins' Tumblr regarding the Winter Soldier and the way he acted around Pierce. Anyway, I read the post and my muse was like, "What's this? Sad Bucky? ON IT!", and she took off running. Took her a while to slow down too. It's kind of a long chapter. She ran a freaking marathon with this thing.
> 
> So, here you go. Bucky's been back for two weeks, and we've got Sad Bucky and Angsty Steve trying to help him figure out what's going on in his head and knock a hole in some of the conditioning Hydra put there.

* * *

Steve wasn't sure when he'd first noticed it, but once he did, he couldn't _not_ notice it. He just wasn't sure how to ask. Bucky had been back for two weeks now, and while he remembered Steve—had actually sought him out—there was a whole hell of a lot that he didn't remember and a lot he wasn't sure about. His own emotions seemed to surprise him, and while he had his good days, unexpected things could set him off, triggering a chain reaction of anger and confusion and yelling and Bucky just shutting down and locking himself in his room. Steve was still trying to find the balance between being helpful and pushing too far—that line seemed to move around on a daily basis. He never knew what was a safe topic of conversation—some things, Bucky refused to talk about, while others he talked about freely, and still others he seemed willing to talk about but didn't know how. Touching on the first or the last ones tended to end in some kind of explosion, so Steve was trying to be careful with what he asked and how. But he had to know.

"Hey, Buck?" he asked. Bucky looked up at him. "Can I ask what's with the knife?" They were watching the news, and Bucky had come into the living room and sat down in the armchair he liked, slipping a knife out of a sheath on his hip and setting it on the coffee table. The first time he saw him do it, Steve had thought he was just moving it so it wouldn't jab him in the leg when he sat down—because he did it every time he sat down—but then Steve had realized that he always seemed to put it closer to Steve than to himself. What really got him wondering, though, was a couple of days ago, when Bucky had been sitting at the table eating breakfast and Steve had joined him. The knife had remained strapped to Bucky's leg until Steve sat down, but as soon as he did, Bucky had slid the knife out and set it on the table. He'd done it casually, like he always did. Like it was a perfectly natural thing to do. Hadn't even looked at it. But that was when the oddness of the whole thing really jumped out at Steve.

Bucky's eyebrows furrowed. "What knife?" he asked.

Huh. That wasn't what Steve had been expecting. "The one on the table."

Bucky's eyes went down to the knife, and he seemed mildly surprised to see it there. "Oh. That's mine."

"I know," Steve said. This was getting weirder. "Why'd you put it there?" Bucky frowned thoughtfully but didn't say anything, so Steve felt the need to elaborate. "It's just, I've noticed every time we sit down together, you put that on the table."

"I do?"

Steve nodded. "Usually over by me, like right now." Bucky looked down curiously at the knife. "Am I supposed to do something with it?" Steve wondered.

Bucky stared at the knife for a long minute with a look of puzzled concentration, then he made a choking sound as his breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened in horror, and before Steve could react, he jumped up and ran out of the room. The bathroom door slammed as Steve leapt to his feet and he hurried down the hall, hesitating at the door. His concern shot up several notches at the sound of violent retching coming from behind the door. "Bucky?" he asked tentatively. "Are you okay?"

There was no response, but after a minute he heard the sound of the toilet flushing and running water. He backed away as the door opened. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, not sure for what yet, although he'd obviously hit a nerve.

Bucky was breathing hard and looking alarmingly pale, and while it was a good sign that he didn't look angry, he was visibly shaken. "No," he said. "No, it, I'm not, you didn't, it's not…" he started, stumbling over the words. He shook his head like he was trying to shake something loose. "You didn't…I just, I can't," he said, gesturing helplessly with one hand. He looked apologetic and sad and a little scared, and he shook his head again. "I can't," he said again, sorrowfully, then ducked his head and pushed past Steve and into his own room, shutting the door.

Though his heart screamed to rush after him and find out what was wrong, Steve could tell this was one of those lines he needed to not push. Bucky was upset—though, apparently (and thankfully), not with Steve—and he needed some space to figure out whatever this was. Steve would give him that. He sighed and stared at the closed door a moment longer before returning to the living room.

He sat where he could see the hallway in case Bucky came back out. He hated sitting here doing nothing. A much younger Bucky used to call him a compulsive fixer, and he supposed that was true. He wanted to fix this. He wanted to help his friend get better. But he didn't know how. He didn't even know what this was. Steve cast his thoughts back over the conversation, trying to think of anything that might have triggered Bucky's reaction. He was coming up blank, other than the whole thing having something to do with Hydra, which was obvious enough it was stupid to even mention.

On the plus side, there had been no yelling. Instead of just locking himself away, Bucky had tried to explain and even apologize a little first. Granted, he hadn't done it well, but the intention was there, and that was a big step for him. Bucky used to have a way with words. He'd been articulate and witty, able to charm himself out of (or into) just about anything. Hydra had taken that from him—beyond mission reports and acknowledgement of orders, what need did they have for a weapon to talk? Words often failed him now, and it made him angry, because he knew he used to be different. Steve was confident that in time, Bucky would find the easy words he used to have. Bucky was not. So, even though he was worried, Steve appreciated Bucky's attempt to articulate his need for space. It was a step in the right direction.

Lost in his thoughts and his worry, Steve didn't realize it was getting late until the room was suddenly awash in light. Sam had come home and was standing in the kitchen, having just flipped the light switch. "Why are you sitting in the dark staring at the hallway?" he asked. He cast his eyes around the living room, noting the absence of Bucky. "Did something happen?" he asked.

Steve sighed and pushed off the couch. "Kind of," he said, walking to the kitchen. He could still see the hallway from where he leaned on the counter. "I'm not really sure what it was." Sam nodded for him to go on, and Steve sighed again. "Have you noticed the thing he does with the knife?"

Sam considered. "You mean that he always has one? Or do you mean how he's always putting one out on the table?"

"The table thing," Steve clarified. "I asked him about it today."

"Didn't take it well?"

Steve tilted his head. "He didn't get mad, if that's what you're wondering. He looked…surprised. I don't think he knew he was doing it."

Sam frowned. "That's weird."

"I know. Then he got this look of…of dawning horror, ran to the bathroom and threw up and then shut himself in his room. He did try to apologize first, so that's…"

"That's good," Sam finished. He was aware of Bucky's difficulty with words, and was remarkably patient with it for someone who didn't really know the guy.

Steve nodded. "Yeah, no, I know. He just…" He sighed. "He looked like he remembered something and it freaked him out. I've been sitting here wracking my brain trying to figure out what it could be."

"Well," Sam said thoughtfully, moving to the fridge to pull out some leftovers. "It sounds like he wants to think about it." He gave Steve a significant look. "And so you know what that means you need to do?"

Steve's eyes narrowed in frustration. "I'm giving him space, aren't I?" he snapped, gesturing at the hall and Bucky's room. Sam had had to gently remind him—a few times—that as much as Steve was trying to help, Bucky needed to set the pace for this healing, not him, and that meant that sometimes Steve was going to have to back off.

Sam didn't rise to match Steve's irritation. "I'm just saying you get ahead of things sometimes," he said calmly, throwing a few slices of pizza in the microwave. "It sounds like he's taking a step here, so let him do it."

"I know," Steve sighed. "I just…"

"I know," Sam nodded. He pulled his plate out of the microwave. "Rest of the pizza's all yours, man."

Steve busied himself with heating up his own dinner, and was a little surprised when Sam spoke up again. "It sounds like a conditioned response," Sam said thoughtfully.

"Huh?"

"The knife thing. You said he didn't realize he was doing it?"

"Yeah."

"So, it sounds to me like something Hydra conditioned him to do. I have no idea why," he added, anticipating Steve's question. "But it sounds like it's a reflex, and now he's trying to figure out why he does it."

"Yeah, well, the 'why' of it probably isn't anything good," Steve said bitterly, remembering Bucky's terrified expression.

"Probably not," Sam agreed. "It _is_ Hydra we're talking about. But it's probably a good thing that you brought it up. You made him aware of it, so now he can think it over and figure it out."

"Yeah." Steve stared down at his pizza. "I just wish…" He didn't finish, not sure what he had wanted to say. He wished a lot of things.

Sam reached across the counter and clapped him on the shoulder. "I know. And I know you probably thought of a thousand different ways this could go while we were looking for him, and none of them looked like this. But he's back, and he wants to be here. Hang on to that, be patient, and we'll figure this out." Steve smiled, grateful for Sam's use of the word 'we' instead of 'you'. He wasn't under any sort of obligation to help the man who tried to kill him when he first met him (several times), but he was doing it anyway, and Steve was glad to have him on his side.

They finished their dinner quietly, and Sam turned the TV back on in the hopes that it would get Steve's mind off his worries. It worked a little—he could focus on it for a while before looking back down the hall and worrying about Bucky.

When it was time for bed, he hesitated outside Bucky's door, finally knocking softly. He didn't want to push him, but it had been awfully quiet for an awfully long time—he just wanted to make sure he was alright. "Bucky?" he asked carefully.

There wasn't a response for long enough that Steve started to worry. "Yeah?" Bucky finally replied in a soft voice.

"You, ah, I just wanted to see if you were okay," Steve said awkwardly, frowning at his wording. Obviously he wasn't okay.

"I'm okay," Bucky said, not really sounding okay at all. Then quietly, almost a whisper, "Please leave me alone."

Steve swallowed down his initial hurt at the rejection—he knew it had taken Bucky a lot of courage to ask that. He could never have made such a request of his Hydra handlers without serious repercussions, and in a halting, painful conversation earlier in the week, Bucky had admitted that even though he knew Steve wouldn't do that, he still expected punishment for dissent.

"Okay," Steve told him. If Bucky needed to see that it was safe to make his own choices, then Steve would show him—he wished he could just say it, but if Bucky needed to see it to really believe it, then Steve would show him again and again until he did. "Whatever you need, man."

He moved away from the door, then stepped back. "If you need anything, you can come get me. But you take whatever time, whatever space you need. No rush."

"Thank you," he heard Bucky whisper.

And it was one of the harder things he'd ever done, but he walked away from the door and went to his room. Eventually, he even managed to fall asleep.

Bucky's door was still shut when he woke up the next morning, but when he walked into the kitchen after his shower, Bucky was at the counter making coffee. "Morning, Buck," he said, and Bucky looked up and kind of smiled at him. Sort of.

"Hey, Steve," he replied. He looked more settled than he had last night, though Steve wouldn't go so far as to say he looked okay. He still looked like something was on his mind. "You want some coffee?" he asked.

"Sounds great. Thanks," Steve said. He grabbed a bowl and sat down at the table, pouring himself some of the cereal Bucky had set out. "You sleep okay?" he asked awkwardly. He felt like he sounded oddly falsely cheerful, and while it was obvious they were both still thinking about last night, he wasn't sure if he should bring it up or not.

Bucky shrugged, his back to Steve as he finished with the coffee. Steve hadn't heard any yelling last night, which either meant that Bucky's dreams had been relatively nightmare-free or that he just hadn't slept at all.

Bucky came to the table, a cup of coffee in each hand. Last week, Bucky had remembered how Steve liked his coffee, and though he grumbled about why he could remember that when he still occasionally forgot his own name, Steve could tell he was happy to have remembered something on his own and have it stick. He'd been offering to make Steve coffee every morning since. He set a cup down in front of Steve, and Steve smiled. "Thanks." The sort of smile got a little bigger.

He watched as Bucky set his own coffee down and lowered himself into his chair. His hand went instinctively to the knife on his hip but stopped halfway as he bit his lip and made a fist. He drew in a deep breath, clenching his fist so tightly Steve half-expected the metal to crack, then let it go, dropping his hand to rest on his thigh. The hand twitched like it wanted to go for the knife again, so Bucky pulled it up to the table to hold his cereal bowl. He kept his eyes firmly on his breakfast.

For several long minutes, neither of them said anything. Bucky was eating slowly and methodically, eyes hidden behind his hair. Steve wasn't sure where to go from here. Finally, he looked across the table and sighed. "You wanna talk about it?" he offered.

Bucky was quiet for a minute, and just enough of his face was visible for Steve to see him worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "No," he said at last, looking up at Steve nervously.

Steve pulled up what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Okay." It wasn't okay, not really. It was obviously eating at Bucky, and Steve wanted to help, he wanted to fix it, and, hell, he just wanted to _know_. But Bucky wasn't ready. "We don't have to."

"We don't?" Bucky asked uncertainly, like he was wondering if this was some sort of test, and Steve swallowed down a lump of hatred for Hydra and whatever they'd done to make Bucky so afraid.

"We don't," Steve repeated. "We can talk about it later, whenever you're ready. Or, you know, we can talk about it never, if that's what you want. It's your call."

"You don't want to know?" Bucky asked suspiciously.

Steve smiled sadly. "Of course, I want to know. But if you don't want to tell me, I'm not going to make you," he promised. He saw something settle in Bucky's eyes as he said that, and realized Bucky had been worrying about that since Steve came into the kitchen. "I'm never going to make you do anything you don't want to," he told him, reaching across the table to pat his hand. "And I'm never gonna get mad at you for it." Bucky knew that Steve wasn't like his old handlers—he'd told him as much—but Steve knew that the inside of Bucky's head was a chaotic, confusing place these days, and that even though he knew things, he often forgot them. So he tried not to let it hurt when Bucky forgot, and instead took every chance he could to remind him that he was safe now.

Bucky looked down at their hands, and Steve squeezed Bucky's and let it go. After a moment, Bucky looked up, gratitude swimming in his steel-blue eyes and a small, but very real smile on his face. "Thank you," he said softly.

Steve smiled back and nodded, and they went back to eating their cereal, but the silence was no longer uncomfortable. Sometimes it was hard to listen to Sam's advice and not push for the answers he wanted, but moments like this one reminded him why he should. That wavering gratitude in Bucky's voice, that relieved smile in his eyes—that was Bucky remembering that he was safe, that _Steve_ was safe. They were figuring each other out again, and they could do this.

Bucky was fairly quiet for the rest of the day—obviously still thinking, but not in the dark and brooding way that scared Sam (and Steve too, if he was being honest). He could be drawn into a conversation, and seemed to welcome the distraction from whatever he was thinking about when Steve asked him if he still wanted to learn how to use the washing machine and dryer, like they'd talked about yesterday. He ended up being fascinated by the dryer in particular, and Steve caught his delighted little smile at the fresh scent and fluffiness of the freshly dried towels.

Bucky insisted that Steve let him fold all the laundry—he said the memory of how to do it was right there on the edge of his brain and he wanted to see if he could get it on his own. Steve agreed, then left the room when Bucky kept glaring at him. Hovering. Right. He could back off a little.

When he came back to the living room later, he smiled at the stacks of neatly folded clothes on the coffee table and Bucky—who, it would seem, had _not_ slept last night—slumped across the pile of folded towels on the couch, fast asleep. (Over the next few months, this was going to become a habit. Sam would often comment on how cat-like his ability to detect clean laundry was, and while Bucky would claim that he just liked the way it smelled, they always found him asleep, head nestled in a pile of clean towels or sheets.)

The next few days passed relatively uneventfully. Sometimes Bucky would get up early and go running with Sam and Steve, and there were hints of conspiratorial winks at Steve and an old, familiar smirk when the repetition of "On your left!" and "On your right!" pulled a frustrated growl out of Sam. They spent one afternoon going through a box of old photographs Steve had found, and Bucky didn't remember everything—or even most of it—but he remembered more than either of them thought he would. He smiled more that afternoon than Steve had seen since he came back, and he even laughed once or twice.

His hand would still twitch toward that knife, and there were a few times he slipped up and the knife made it all the way up to the table. He always looked a little sick when that happened, and he would grab it and put it away and sulk for a while. Steve was dying to know what it was all about, but he had accepted that he was probably never going to. Whatever it was, Bucky seemed to be working his way through it on his own, and that was good. And if his improvement was coming at the cost of Steve's curiosity, well, that was a price Steve was happy to pay.

It was about a week later when, to Steve's surprise, Bucky brought it up. They were in the living room—Bucky had been reading and Steve was looking over a mission briefing Tony had sent over. (He hadn't gone on any missions since Bucky had come back—he didn't think either of them were ready for him to be gone for that long—but he did look over reports to keep up with what the team was doing and to offer tactical advice.) A flash of motion had caught his eye, and he'd looked up to see Bucky had gotten the knife out again. He hadn't put it up on the coffee table, though—he was just playing with it, flipping it between his fingers.

Bucky caught Steve watching him and stopped. He looked down at the knife and back up at Steve. "You still want to know?" he asked quietly.

Steve arched an eyebrow in surprise, but set the folder aside. "I do if you want to tell me."

Bucky nodded and bit his lip. "I wanted to figure it out first," he said. "Before I said anything. And I knew that if I didn't…If I didn't think about it, and if I didn't know what to say, then I would try to tell you about it and I wouldn't know what to say, and I would…" He sighed and looked up at Steve apologetically. "I always end up yelling at you. I never mean to. I know I used to be better at talking to people, but I can't remember how, and it gets stuck and I get so angry, and I'm not angry at you, but you're right here, and so that's where it all…where it all goes." He sighed. "I'm sorry."

Steve smiled and reached over to clap him on the shoulder. "I know. I yelled at a fair few people when I came out of the ice. This whole 'man out of his own time' thing is a lot, and I know that's far and away the least of all the crap you've got to deal with. So, I'm not gonna take it personally."

Bucky nodded gratefully, looking back down at the knife. He placed the tip against his metal palm and started to spin it slowly. "So, um, the knife thing, I…I didn't know I was doing it until you asked about it. And I had to think about it for a while. I have trouble remembering a lot of what exactly Hydra did to me and when—it just all blurs together—either because I don't _want_ to remember, or because my brain is just…broken and I can't."

He drew in a deep breath and Steve swallowed down the need to tell Bucky that he wasn't broken. Bucky was trying to get through this, and Steve didn't want to disrupt his process.

"Anyway, I, when you asked, I had this thought that I knew why, but I didn't know where it came from, and I didn't want it to be that, so I had to go and…" He was rambling, but Steve just nodded, knowing that if he waited long enough, it would all tie together.

"But it was," Bucky said sadly. He stopped spinning the knife and gripped the hilt tightly in his fist. "It was supposed to be a gun," he said, huffing a humorless laugh. He started tapping the blade restlessly against his metal fingers. "I don't know if this is worse or not, but it was supposed to be a gun. I still have my guns, but I don't like to, I mean, I don't want to…" He sighed again. "I know I don't need them here. But I'm just not ready to…" He shook his head, looking down at the knife. He wasn't ready to be unarmed yet, and Steve got that. They'd talked about it some, and he wondered if Bucky had forgotten they'd had that conversation, or if he just felt the need to reiterate it now.

"It's alright," Steve told him. "Me and Sam, we don't mind."

Bucky nodded. "I know." He kept tapping the knife against his fingers. "But Hydra…" He swallowed. "It was old programming," he said quietly. "That's why it took me so long to figure it out. Hydra, they had different ways of controlling me. But when I was…" He frowned, searching for a word. "Before I was finished, they hadn't figured it all out yet. I was dangerous, even to them. They could control me most of the time, but not all of the time, and I scared them. I think maybe I killed one of them. I don't remember." He shook his head and started tapping his knife on the edge of the coffee table, his eyes far away and lost in a memory. Steve tried to look encouraging, waiting for him to continue, but he was nervous. This was Hydra, so, obviously this story wasn't heading anywhere good, but he got the feeling it was going somewhere very, very bad.

"There were lots of these, these reflexes they gave me," Bucky said, gesturing at the side of his head with the hand not holding the knife. "I don't remember how they did it," he said quietly, grimacing at the memory of a distant pain. "But this one was…If I was ever alone with one of my handlers and they didn't…" He inhaled shakily. "They didn't look like they were armed," he said slowly, as if deliberately selecting each word. "I was supposed to…to…"

Steve realized his mouth was hanging open in horror, and he shook his head, mentally begging Bucky not to finish the sentence.

Bucky stopped tapping the knife and was silent for a long moment before growling and flinging the knife across the room where it embedded itself in the wall. He buried his face in his hands. "I was supposed to give them a weapon so they could kill me if they needed to," he finished in a tiny, broken voice.

For a long time, neither of them said anything. Most of Steve's mental energy was going to keeping himself from throwing up, so it took a while to process what Bucky had just told him. Served them right, living in fear of the monster they created, but the fact that they made Bucky willingly give his tormentors the means to put him down like a rabid dog…It almost didn't matter that they'd never needed to do it. There were no words for how disgusting that was.

Steve swallowed down another wave of nausea as he realized where Bucky had been putting the knife these past few weeks. Steve. He'd been putting the knife in front of Steve. The part of Bucky's mind that was still Bucky might know he was free, but the part that was still entangled in the programming and the conditioning and the Winter Soldier, that part was still following orders and had just transferred the chain of command from Alexander Pierce to Steve. Something inside Bucky's brain saw Steve as his new handler, and suddenly he couldn't swallow it down any more and this time it was Steve jumping up and running to the bathroom.

When he'd finished throwing up, he slumped down on the floor and leaned back against the door, shutting his eyes. When he'd found Bucky strapped to that table in Italy, that was the first time he'd truly understood what it meant to hate something, and he'd thought he could never hate anything more than he did Hydra in that moment. Two days later, he'd proven himself wrong when Bucky had woken up screaming in the medical tent, and Steve had held his shaking, weeping, terrified best friend in his arms. Then Bucky had fallen from the train, then Steve met him on the bridge, then they fought on the helicarrier. And then, and then, and then…There just wasn't a limit. How much he hated them would never, ever stop growing. They had taken everything. _Everything_. And now they were dead, defeated, falling apart, on the run, and they were still taking it. He slammed a fist into the floor by his feet, dimly registering the tile cracking but not really caring.

A pang of guilt cut through his anger. Bucky. Bucky was still out in the living room. Probably wondering what the hell was going on and if he hadn't finally pushed Steve too far. Steve drew in a deep breath, schooling his face into something calmer and pushing himself to his feet. None of this was Bucky's fault.

Back in the living room, Bucky was still sitting with his face in his hands but he looked up when Steve came in, worry etched plainly across his face. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, and Steve wondered if he was conscious of the way he pulled his knees up into his chair, making himself smaller.

Steve shook his head. "Don't be," he said, smiling sadly. "You're not the one I'm mad at." He sat back down with a sigh. Bucky was watching him warily. "Really," he assured him. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't've reacted that way."

"It's okay," Bucky told him with a tiny smile. "I did." He seemed to relax a little when that got a small smile out of Steve in response.

"It's just so…" Steve sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It's just _wrong_." And that was understating it, but he didn't have any better words. He sighed again and looked up, his throat suddenly tight. "What they did to you, it's—" He shook his head, swallowing down the urge to be sick again. "I'm so sorry, Buck," he said. Sorry for what they'd done to him, sorry for how they'd hurt him, for all the years he'd suffered. Sorry that he hadn't saved him.

A sad smile quirked up the corner of Bucky's mouth. "It's not your fault," he said softly.

Maybe Bucky believed that, but Steve wasn't sure he did. If he'd just responded faster, not gone down, not lost his shield, not left himself and, subsequently, Bucky vulnerable. If he'd just reached farther. "I'm still sorry," he said quietly.

Bucky nodded and Steve sighed. "Thanks for telling me," he said. "I know that…that wasn't easy. Thank you for trusting me."

"I always trust you," Bucky said quietly. He gave Steve a soft smile. "I'm not very good at acting like it sometimes, but I do."

Something warm uncurled in Steve's chest and he smiled back.

"And I know," Bucky went on. "I know you would never, I mean, I know I was giving you the knife, but I know, I know you wouldn't…" He shook his head, getting caught up on his words.

"Never," Steve said firmly, and just like that, the hurt he'd felt that some part of Bucky's brain was thinking of him as his new handler vanished. Because maybe something in his brain thought that, but _Bucky_ didn't, and that was all Steve needed. They could fix the rest of it.

Bucky smiled gratefully, then blushed, looking across the room at the knife in the wall. "Sorry about that," he said.

Steve waved the apology away. "We'll hang a picture in front of it or something," he said, smiling when that surprised a short, sharp laugh out of Bucky.

"Hey, are you okay?" Bucky asked, eyes following his hand. "Your hand's bleeding."

Steve looked down at his hand where blood was oozing from the knuckles. "Yeah," he said. "I, uh, I punched the floor in the bathroom."

Bucky smirked. "At least I'm not the only one with anger issues around here. Wash it off and let me take a look at it." He left the room and came back a minute later with the first aid kit. Steve was rinsing his hand off in the kitchen, and it really wasn't bad at all, but if Bucky wanted to fix it up, Steve would let him. "I pulled the hamper over the new hole in the floor," Bucky said conversationally, dabbing antiseptic into the cuts on Steve's hand. "That way Wilson won't have to yell at anybody."

Over the course of the next day or two, whenever Bucky's hand twitched reflexively in the direction of his knife, he would catch himself and Steve would give him an encouraging smile and carry on as if nothing had happened, and Bucky would nod back and follow his cue instead of allowing himself to brood over it. And one morning at breakfast, when Bucky had slept badly the night before and wasn't firing on all cylinders yet, he pulled the knife from its sheath and placed it in front of Steve without realizing it. Steve didn't say anything, and Bucky's eyes widened briefly in alarm as Steve reached out and picked up the knife, but Steve merely flipped it around and stuck it in the butter dish, grabbing a new piece of toast and using the knife to spread the butter liberally across the top.

Bucky looked surprised for a moment, then huffed a laugh and shook his head. "You better clean that when you're done," he said, the grateful smile in his eyes belying his gruff tone.

Steve arched a mischievous eyebrow at his friend, and, maintaining eye contact, grabbed a second piece of toast and stuck the knife into the strawberry jelly.

Bucky shook his head, clicking his tongue in mock annoyance. "Steve, Steve, Steve," he said. "Where are your table manners? You can't use a combat knife for jelly." He reached down to his ankle and pulled up a smaller knife. "You want to use a boot knife for jelly," he added, demonstrating by grabbing a piece of his own toast and using the boot knife to slather it in grape jelly.

"You guys are weird," Sam said, from where he'd been watching who knows how much of the exchange from the doorway. The look on his face made it clear that whatever reaction he'd been expecting to that comment, it was _not_ Bucky laughing so hard that milk came out of his nose.

* * *


	13. You Mind Giving Me A Hand?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's pretty light, although it starts off with some h/c. The paragraph towards the end with the dishwasher came from Buckykingofmemes, which, if you're a fan of Bucky, is one of the best things on Tumblr. Even if you're not a fan of Bucky, it's still fantastic. (Although, if you're not a fan of Bucky, you're a long way into the wrong story, my friend.)
> 
> And, we've got a guest appearance from Tony! Tony, who's being nice to Bucky, as it should have been.

* * *

Bucky had never been so happy to see Stark Tower. Their mission had, ultimately, been successful, but it had been a hard-won fight, and it had been a very long flight back across the Atlantic with a malfunctioning cybernetic arm. He didn't usually feel a lot with it—pressure, motion, things like that—but if something in it was broken, he could always feel that. Stark said the mechanics acted like nerves that way, sending out pain signals to let him know that it was damaged. _You can shut the hell up now,_ he thought angrily at his arm. _I've got the message_.

Whatever was wrong with it now was more than Stark could fix on the road, and it was glitching and stuck in some sort of feedback loop—he couldn't move it, and about every minute and a half, a sharp jolt of pain would spike out of his shoulder and into the rest of his body, getting incrementally stronger each time it happened. And sure, the Quinjet was fast, but not fast enough, and he'd spent the entire flight trying to swallow down the pain and keep from vomiting as it got worse. It didn't help that Steve kept watching him with those big, worried eyes of his. He hadn't said much, trying to keep his own pain from his concussion in check, but at one point he'd asked if there was anything he could do to help and Bucky told him he could punch him and knock him out again. He was only kind of joking. Steve didn't laugh.

He wasn't sure exactly what had happened to his arm, since that was how he got knocked out the first time. Something large and metal and sharp had been flying through the air, and Bucky's arm had kept it from taking Nat's head off, so that was good, but the accompanying explosion of pain had been enough to take him out. He'd woken up on the jet and almost immediately wished he hadn't.

Everyone stumbled off the jet, exhausted, and most of the group headed for the medical wing themselves. Nat was limping, Barton's wrist was either broken or sprained, they couldn't tell yet, and Stark was sporting an impressive black eye that was spreading to cover the entire right side of his face—which was saying something, considering he'd been in the Iron Man suit when he got it. Steve was having trouble walking in a straight line, but he was steady enough to catch Bucky and keep them both upright when he staggered halfway down the ramp as another flare of pain shot out of his shoulder.

"Thanks," Bucky whispered, partially because he was trying to catch his breath and partially because he knew Steve's head was killing him.

Steve caught himself before he nodded and patted Bucky on the back instead. He kept Bucky's arm over his shoulder until they reached the medical wing. Bucky appreciated the support—another wave of pain almost dropped him to his knees in the elevator—but with as heavily as Steve was leaning on him, he got the feeling that he wasn't the only one Steve was trying to keep on his feet.

"Alrighty, then," Stark said once Bucky was sitting down in an exam room. Steve was next door being looked over by Banner. "Let's see what we've got. Can you get your shirt off?"

It turned out to be harder than it sounded. Although his arm didn't hurt at the moment—he guessed he had about sixty more seconds until the next spike—it still didn't want to do anything either. He finally had to concede defeat and let Stark help him take it off.

"Gimme a scan, J," Stark said to the ceiling, which started to hum. "So, you can't use it at all, huh?"

"No," Bucky said through clenched teeth, riding out another jolt of pain. Red flared through the holographic image of his arm that J.A.R.V.I.S. was constructing in midair.

"Hmm," Stark mused. "Must have hit something important." He squinted at the floating image. "You want a sedative or something? This has got to be killing you."

"No," Bucky replied. The Hydra techs always kept him sedated when they worked on his arm, floating somewhere not unconscious but not awake, unable to move. A shiver ran down his spine at the memory. "Can you tell what's wrong?"

Stark poked at the hologram, zooming in on a section on the outside of his bicep. "Aside from the hole in the side of your arm?" Whatever had hit him had caught in one of the gaps where the metal segmented and forced the metal apart as it cut into his arm. "Yeah. See this right here?" He twiddled his finger inside the hologram and it moved. "You've got some key wiring that's been severed here, and it looks like it smashed the hell out of this little mechanism that controls the joint—FYI, that's where all the pain's coming from."

Bucky just had time to see a flash of red flare out from the piece of the hologram Stark was pointing at before doubling over as pain washed over his body again. "Got it," he hissed. "Can you fix it?"

Stark was looking at him with that same concerned gaze Steve had been wearing on the plane. "Yeah. Not quickly, though. I'm gonna have to replace several of the servos, and the ones you've got in there are all custom-cut. J's already started on 'em, but it's gonna take a couple of hours. Are you sure you don't want something for the pain?"

Bucky groaned, nausea churning in his gut at the thought of two more hours of intermittent agony. "No," he said at last, though he was sorely tempted. "I don't want anything, I…" He trusted Stark—mostly—and he knew he was only trying to help, but he was afraid of where his brain might go. Hydra had…there had been a lot of drugs with Hydra.

And, he was ashamed to admit it, even to himself, but a sedative or painkiller would slow his reactions, dull his mind, and he couldn't be that vulnerable right now. Not by himself. Not when Steve wasn't there to keep him safe…No. He'd just ride out the pain. It's not like he hadn't had worse.

Stark didn't press the issue, just nodding and getting to work. "Does it hurt when I touch it?" he asked, prodding gingerly at the damaged area with a long, delicate tool.

Bucky shook his head. Stark set to work opening the remains of the panel that was in the way. "Oh, yeah," he said, letting out a low whistle. "That is a mess. How'd this even happen? I thought you said this thing was plated with vibranium?"

"Just the hand," Bucky replied.

"Oh. I guess that explains it. Let's see…" He trailed off, muttering to himself, his eyes darting from Bucky's arm and back to the hologram. He pulled away when the floating image started to go red again and Bucky gasped in pain.

"This is gonna take forever if I have to keep doing this," he said. "J, can you find me anything to speed this up?"

"Something like this, sir?" J.A.R.V.I.S. offered. The ceiling hummed and the hologram spun, a tiny section glowing gold just under the armpit.

"Ah," Stark said. He carefully lifted Bucky's arm and popped the little panel open. "Nice catch, J."

He poked his little tool into the panel he'd opened and the pain disappeared abruptly, along with Bucky's sense of balance, and he toppled over sideways on the table as a sudden weightlessness rushed over his left side.

"What…" Bucky began, wondering why it was suddenly so hard to push himself back up and realizing with a jolt that it was because he was trying to do it with only one arm. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of his metal arm in Stark's hands and very clearly _not_ attached to his shoulder anymore. "What the hell did you just do?!" he yelled.

"Whoa, hey," Stark said, oddly calmly, considering that he had just removed Bucky's arm. "It's okay, I just—"

"No," Bucky said, a wave of panic building up in his chest. "No, no, no, no, no, this—" It had been months since he'd had a flashback— _months_ —he'd been doing so well, but now he could feel reality starting to blur around the edges. He was in an exam room, he was in a lab—they looked the same, they all looked the same, there were always labs, so many labs, so many scientists, poking and cutting and changing things, and they never took his arm off (he didn't _think_ they took his arm off) but they cut things and they changed things and they took pieces of him away and he wasn't there again—he couldn't be there again, he was home, he was safe, but he wasn't, because he was here, and it was a lab, and his arm was…his arm was…"No, no, no," he whispered.

"Bucky?" A large, warm hand was on his shoulder. "Bucky, what's wrong? Bucky, hey, look at me. Look at me, it's okay."

Bucky looked up and he knew that voice. "Steve?" His hand went out, catching something solid, material bunching in his clumsy fingers.

A familiar smile. Bright, worried eyes, trying to look encouraging and not afraid. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me. I'm right here, it's okay."

It was okay, because Steve was here now, and Steve wasn't going to let anybody hurt him, but it wasn't okay, because…"No, no, but Steve, Steve, my arm, he took my arm…" He clenched his fingers in the soft material of Steve's shirt, desperately trying to hold on to reality by holding on to Steve.

"What?" Steve looked down from Bucky's face, his own eyes going wide, and as Bucky's mind started to settle, he wondered that Steve hadn't noticed it already. Then again, Steve had probably just heard Bucky yell and come running—all his focus on bringing Bucky back, and ignoring details like whether or not everyone had all their limbs, and, maybe a little oddly, that calmed Bucky down a little more. That was very Steve.

Steve looked up from Bucky's now-empty shoulder socket and back to Bucky's face, following Bucky's eyes to Stark, who was still holding the metal limb in his hands. "What the hell, Tony?!" he demanded.

Stark, somehow, was managing to look both embarrassed and defensive at the same time. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought it would be…" He trailed off, looking down at the arm and back at Bucky. "Did you not know that it did that?" He shook his head, answering his own question before Bucky could. "Stupid question. That's obviously not the face of a man in the know. I'm so sorry," he said again. "I didn't mean to freak you out. I totally thought you knew it did that."

"Wh—what do you mean 'it does that'?" Bucky stammered. He was mentally back in the right place now, but his pounding heart and his breathing hadn't quite gotten that memo yet.

"It's got a release mechanism in it," Stark explained. "It's designed to detach for maintenance."

"It is?"

Stark's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Yeah. You're telling me that for seventy years, you never saw this happen?"

"How did _you_ know it did that?" Steve asked as Bucky shook his head.

Stark nodded up at the ceiling. "J.A.R.V.I.S. has all the info from that S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra file dump you guys did last year. Including some schematics on your arm. I thought I told you that?"

"You did," Bucky said. That had been the only useful information they'd found on his Winter Soldier days—nothing on what they'd done to his brain or how to undo it—and Bucky had been a little disappointed that that was all they had and filed it away and forgotten about it.

"Right," Stark said, emboldened. "So, J.A.R.V.I.S. knows what all the pieces do in there, which is how he found the switch. And this is like the third or fourth version you've had of the arm, so they _must_ have taken it off at some point."

"Yeah, well, they must have put me out for it, because I don't remember them ever taking my arm off. Not _that_ one, anyway," Bucky added, drawing a concerned look from Steve. He _did_ remember them removing what was left of his original flesh and blood arm. That had hurt.

"Okay, so it comes off," Steve said, squeezing Bucky's shoulder to draw him back to the moment and away from the bad memory. "Why did you take it off in the first place?"

Stark sighed, giving them both a 'really?' look. "Because it's gonna take me a few hours to get this fixed. That feedback loop was killing him, and I figure, it can't hurt if it's not attached. And I'm a big fan of people not throwing up on my floor," he added, shooting for casual and almost making it.

"Oh." A smile tugged at the corner of Bucky's mouth. "Thanks." More often than not, he wasn't sure how to react to Stark. He forgot sometimes how thoughtful he could be. "Maybe warn me next time, but…" He smiled wider.

Stark smiled back. "Duly noted." His eyes jumped from Bucky to Steve. "Speaking of people not throwing up on my floor…"

Bucky followed Stark's eyes up to Steve, who was looking decidedly gray.

"Did Bruce clear you to come running in here?" Stark asked.

"I'm alright," Steve insisted.

Stark snorted and Bucky rolled his eyes. "You look like hell," he said, pushing himself off the table. His balance was a little off, missing a metal arm and all, but he was definitely steadier than Steve. He arched an eyebrow at Stark. "You don't actually need me for this part now, do you?"

Stark waved them towards the next room. "Go. Take our concussed fearless leader back to bed. I'll call you when the arm's good to go."

Steve didn't argue as Bucky led him back to the room he'd come in from. "You alright?" Steve asked.

Bucky shook his head, huffing a soft laugh. He wasn't the one with a dent in his skull. "I'm fine. I just, you know…overreacted, I guess." He smiled, something warm purring happily in his chest. It had been an unnecessary panic, but no less terrifying than if it had been warranted, and Steve had caught him before he fell too far. "But thanks for coming."

Steve smiled back at him, swaying as he did so.

"Uh uh," Bucky said, adjusting his one-armed grip. "We're six feet from the bed, don't you fall over now."

Steve smiled, even as he shut his eyes to ward off the dizziness. "'s not that far. You could totally carry me six feet."

Bucky laughed in spite of himself and rolled his eyes. "Maybe, but if I try to catch you with just one arm, we're both going down."

Steve let out a surprised snort of laughter at that, then winced, pressing a hand to the side of his head. "Ow," he complained.

"Sorry," Bucky apologized. He helped Steve sit down on the bed, and keeping himself balanced while taking most of Steve's weight was tricky doing it with just the one arm, but he managed. Once Steve was on the bed, he lay back with a relieved sigh. "So, Banner checked you out?" Bucky asked. A concussion bad enough to take Steve down had to be a hell of a knock to the head.

"He said I'd be fine," Steve told him, not opening his eyes.

"You are going to be fine, but that's not exactly what I said," Bruce said, coming back into the room.

Of course it wasn't. "What exactly did you say?" Bucky asked.

"Well," Bruce started, then stopped, eyes narrowing in confusion. "Where's your arm?"

"Stark's working on it. Apparently, it comes off," Bucky said, trying and sort of managing a shrug.

"Huh," Banner mused. He looked at Steve and frowned. "He got up and went in there, didn't he?"

Bucky nodded—his instinct was to give Steve a hard time for not following doctor's orders, but Bucky had needed him and he'd come running. He couldn't get too mad at him for that. Bruce shook his head but refrained from commenting.

"Well," Banner started again. "He's got a hell of a concussion, as you can probably tell, and he needs to stay horizontal at least until morning. He's also got a cracked skull. It's not broken," he stressed, correctly interpreting the worried look on Bucky's face. "And with the way he heals, two, three days he'll be back in one piece."

"So, basically, I'll be fine," Steve said, surprising Bucky—he'd been quiet enough, he thought he'd fallen asleep.

Banner sighed. "Yes, you'll be fine, but you're not fine right now." He looked up at Bucky. "I want to keep him here over night. _Maybe_ he can go home in the morning—I'm undecided—but even if he does, he's gonna need low noise, low light, and to stay off his feet as much as possible for the rest of the week."

Bucky nodded. "I'll make sure of that," he said.

Banner nodded. "I know." One corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "That's why I'm telling you, and not just him."

"Hey!" Steve protested, cracking one eye open to glare at them.

"He's got your number, Stevie," Bucky chuckled. "Now, go to sleep."

* * *

Stark reattached his arm the next morning—Bucky had fallen asleep in the chair beside Steve's bed before he'd finished with it. Steve was still sleeping when he got up, but Stark was in the lab. He was wearing a different shirt, so he'd probably gone to bed at some point.

"Morning!" he greeted when Bucky poked his head back into the lab. He set down his coffee and shoved himself away from the table he was at, wheeled chair rolling to a second table where Bucky's arm sat. "Got it all fixed up for you," Stark said, getting to his feet and picking up the arm. He held it out for inspection. "Good as new. Even polished it up for you."

"Thanks," Bucky said. It was still weird seeing his arm not attached to his body, but it was all back in one piece, shining in the light of the lab. He raised his remaining hand to pull his shirt off, but Stark held up a hand to stop him.

"No need," he said. "This goes back on real easy." He gestured for Bucky to sit down in the chair he'd vacated. "Watch this," he said, grinning. "Are you ready for this? This is so cool." He pulled the sleeve of Bucky's t-shirt up enough to expose the empty socket, then simply held the ball of the shoulder joint against the socket. He felt a hum of energy and a shiver of motion ran down Bucky's side and, with a series of metallic snapping noises and a sharp pinch, his arm reattached itself.

Bucky looked down at it skeptically, but Stark was still grinning. "Go on," he said, waving at his arm. "Move it around, try it out."

Bucky moved his fingers, fast, then slow, then fast again. He rotated his wrist, bent the elbow, moved the limb up and down experimentally, finally swinging it in a full rotation a couple of times. Everything seemed to be working like it was supposed to and nothing hurt. "Thanks," he said again with a smile. He looked down at his shoulder. "I feel like that should have been more work going back on."

Stark shook his head. "No. When all the connectors detach, they all fold back up into the ball joint. The ports and connectors in the shoulder socket close up too. Keeps everything nice and clean and from getting damaged any further. Then, all you have to do is set it in place, and the proximity sensors wake the connectors up and they all unfold and lock back into place. Pretty cool, right?"

Bucky shrugged. "It's handy, I guess." He wasn't inclined to get _too_ excited over Hydra tech on principle, but Stark was into this kind of thing, so he'd give it to him. He lifted his arm, trying to see the spot under his bicep where Stark had detached it last night. "Hey, can you show me how this comes off? Just in case I need to know later?"

"Sure." Stark grabbed his little tool from off the table. "So, the nice thing about this is that it's easy to do, but hard to do on accident. Your arm's not gonna come flying off if it gets hit wrong in a fight or something."

"Good to know."

"So, look down here. See this little panel?" He was pointing at a little square of metal in his armpit that Bucky had to crane his neck to see. It was smaller than all of the other panels on his arm.

"Yeah."

"I popped it open with this," he said, gesturing with his tool. "But you could probably do it with your fingernail. Try it."

Bucky poked at the spot and found there was a little gap at the bottom just wide enough for his fingernail to fit. He caught the edge of the panel and it snapped open on a little hinge.

"Okay, see that little hole?" Stark said. There was a piece of a larger mechanism behind the now-opened panel. A small hole, just a few millimeters in diameter, sat in the middle. "I used this thing." He gestured with the tool again. "Because it's really fine and pointy, but you could use whatever you've got handy. A paperclip ought to do it. But here, use this and just push it into the hole until it hits something."

Bucky took the tool and gingerly poked it into the little hole in the panel. He felt resistance and pushed a little harder and…It was hard to say what that sensation was, exactly, other than to say it felt like things were snapping open inside of him instead of locking in place, sending odd little shivers down his back. His arm fell off abruptly and hit the table with a loud clank.

"See? Easy, right?"

"That felt really weird," Bucky said. It didn't hurt—and now that he wasn't freaking out, he could focus on the process—but it was a very strange feeling. He pushed his sleeve up, grabbed the arm and held it back in place, and it snapped and clicked and locked itself back in just like it had done before. He nodded. Not that he really knew when he'd _need_ to take his arm off, but it was good to know. Even better, it all worked. It was nice having two arms again. "Thank you."

Stark nodded. "Any time. So, it's all good? Doesn't hurt or anything?"

"Nope. Back to normal."

"Awesome. How's our fearless leader doing?" he asked with a nod back to the room Steve was in.

"Well, he's asleep now, but he's gonna be grumpy when he wakes up. Banner's got him on bed rest for the rest of the week."

Stark grimaced. "Ooh. That's not gonna be pretty. You're taking him home, right? Please tell me he's not gonna be moping around the Tower."

Bucky grinned. "Once Banner clears him, yeah, I'll take him home." Idiot would probably try to walk there on his own, otherwise.

And, yeah, Steve was a pain for the next few days, but between Bucky and Sam, they managed to keep him horizontal until his head was back in one piece. Bucky was glad he had full use of both arms for that. Steve may have lost his sense of balance, but the super-strength was still there, and he was a determined little snot when he wanted to be.

It wasn't until about a month later that Bucky really started exploring some of the upsides of having a removable arm.

For one thing, alien goop really settled into the chinks between the metal plating and was almost impossible to scrub out after it started drying. Pop that sucker in the dishwasher, though, and it was cleaner in an hour than it would have been if he'd scrubbed it for days.

"I may have to do that more often," he said, setting his gleaming arm back into place.

"That is seriously creepy, you know that, right?" Steve pointed out.

"I'll warn you next time," Bucky said with a grin. Steve's little yelp of surprise when he opened the dishwasher and found Bucky's arm was a noise Bucky was going to cherish for a while.

He discovered another perk when they finally found a supervillain smart enough to have metal detectors and alarms installed at all his entrances—Bucky could just take the arm off, toss it over the sensor and walk right through. He had a hell of an easier time getting in there than Stark did. Same went for those enhanced bad guys who could control metal—he had to practice a few one-armed fighting moves, but he was still in that fight.

Far and away, however, the best part about having a removable arm was messing with Sam.

Sam, as it turned out, had missed the initial arm-removing freakout. He'd gone to the medical wing with Steve, but had been downstairs helping Nat when Bucky's arm came off. Then he'd gone to bed. By the time he came back up to help get Steve home, Bucky's arm was back where it belonged. He had no idea the thing came off.

Bucky wasn't sure when exactly he'd realized that, but once he did, he started looking for a way to take advantage of it. And then, one day, he found the perfect opportunity.

Bucky and Steve were in the kitchen, putting away groceries. Sam was in the living room trying to hook up a new set of speakers.

"Hey, super-strong guys," he called from where he was kneeling by the bookshelf. "I need to move this thing to get at the outlet back here. Can one of y'all give me a hand?"

Before anyone could say anything, Bucky's metal arm was flying across the room. It smacked Sam in the shoulder and hit the floor with a thump. Sam looked down and saw what had hit him, then yelled and jumped up, backed away into the coffee table and fell over.

Bucky was doubled over, leaning against the counter and laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Steve looked confused, still trying to process what had just happened, and his expression only made Bucky laugh harder.

"What just—" he started.

"What the hell?!" Sam sputtered, getting up off the floor. "Did you just… Did you just throw your arm at me?"

"You said," Bucky started. "You said…" He was laughing so hard he couldn't complete the sentence, but he managed a word or two between gasps. "You said…you needed…a…a hand." There were no words for the expression on Sam's face. Priceless. Bucky could only laugh harder, and would have been on the floor at this point if the counter hadn't been right there. He was pretty sure he was crying now.

"Oh, that is…" Sam shook his head.

Steve snorted and bit his lip, trying not to laugh.

"No!" Sam insisted. "That is not funny!"

"You're right, it's not, it's…" Steve tried to finish the sentence without laughing and failed miserably.

"I hate you," Sam growled at the cackling super soldiers. "Both of you."

"Oh, come on, Wilson," Bucky laughed, finally able to breathe again. "You've gotta admit, that was pretty good."

Sam's mouth worked like he was trying to keep it from smiling. "You threw your _arm_ at me."

"How do you expect me to resist an invitation like that?" Bucky snickered, moving to the living room to retrieve his wayward appendage. Steve followed, still chuckling, and pulled the chair away from the bookshelf, preparing to move it.

Sam gave in and allowed himself to smile, shaking his head. "Well, had I known the thing came off, I would have been more careful with my phrasing." He watched with fascination as Bucky reattached his arm. "What the actual hell, dude?"

"Stark found out it comes off. Makes it easier to fix."

"Uh huh. Easier to fix. Right. I'm gonna be finding this thing all over the apartment, aren't I?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"I would never do that!" Bucky exclaimed, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense. He smirked. At least, he wouldn't be doing that any time that Sam was looking for it. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to help Steve move this bookshelf."

* * *


	14. The Itsy-Bitsy Spider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written back during the dark days between Infnity War and Endgame, and comes to you by request of my beta buddy, Ninjagidget, who asked for an appearance from Spiderman who was "thriving and, you know, not being dead." So, ta-dah! Guest appearance from little baby Spiderman (who's pretty adorable and will most likely be getting a recurring guest role) and a cameo from Papa Bear Stark. In which we learn that Bucky is great with kids, but may not be the most trustworthy of babysitters. But then, Tony should probably have known better.
> 
> (Timeline-wise, Bucky's been back for at least a year. Civil War's obviously not happening, so, they didn't need Spidey for that, but Tony still found this little genius kid on You-Tube anyway, figured he could help him out.)

* * *

Bucky was sitting in the kitchen in Avenger's Tower—Steve and Nat were on their way back from a mission, and they were going to meet up and head somewhere for dinner—when he heard the sound of Tony Stark yelling at someone in the living quarters.

"Don't you take that tone of voice with me, young man!" he warned. "You're gonna go to your room and you're gonna stay there until I say you can come out. And no more science without adult supervision!"

Stark marched into the kitchen, still scowling. "Bucky! Hey, you around for a while?"

"Um, yeah, I guess," Bucky replied. "Who—"

"Great!" Stark cut him off. "Will you make sure the kid stays in his room?"

"Uh, sure, but what—"

"You hear that?" Stark called, raising his voice and turning his head back toward the hallway. "I've got the Winter Soldier on babysitting detail! So, don't even think about trying anything!"

Before Bucky could get any more clarification, Stark had stalked away, muttering to himself in technobabble. Curious, Bucky pushed away from the table and made his way down the hall. The second door to the left was open—the one next to the room Thor stayed in when he was around. A kid was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed and scowling at the door. Bucky wouldn't have put him at more than fifteen, but he suddenly looked younger when he saw Bucky standing there and his brown eyes widened almost comically nervously as he backed away.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winter Soldier Sir, I wasn't going anywhere, I swear! Please don't kill me!"

Bucky sighed. "I'm not gonna kill anyone, kid, calm down."

"Oh." The kid blushed. "Sorry. Right. Yeah. I wasn't trying to be rude or anything. I know you don't do that anymore—you're an Avenger, right? You're cool. You just startled me, is all. I'm sorry, Sir."

"It's fine," Bucky said. He looked the kid up and down. He was kind of scrawny, with brown hair standing up on the end like he'd been running his hands through it. The room around him looked, well, sort of lived in. There were clothes and notebooks and a couple of dishes scattered around the room in a haphazard, teenage sort of way and the bed was unmade, but there was nothing on the walls or in the closet, and there was a mostly-empty backpack on the floor. The kid either didn't actually live here or had just moved in. "Who are you?" Bucky asked.

"Peter," he said quickly. "My name's Peter."

"Do you live here?" Bucky wondered. He hadn't seen him around before.

Peter shrugged. "I'm kind of in and out, you know? I come here and we do stuff and I stay a little while."

Bucky nodded. Was this Stark's kid? He'd never mentioned one, but he'd sure sounded like a dad just then. And if the kid lived with his mom, it'd make sense he was only in the Tower some of the time. "How'd you get kicked out of the lab?" he asked.

"Oh," Peter blushed. "I, uh, I was testing out some ratios for the microfiber webbing to see if I could increase the tensile strength without losing any of the flexibility, but I was off somewhere in the measurements and it sort of…exploded and everything in the lab is covered in spiderwebs now. It's really sticky."

Bucky grinned. Weird, reckless science? Definitely Stark's kid. Peter was cringing, like he wasn't sure how Bucky was going to react. "Relax, kid, after all the times he's set something in there on fire? Although, spiderwebs?" He chuckled at the image of Stark's pristine lab coated in sticky spiderwebs. "It's gotta look like a horror movie down there."

Peter grinned. "It looks like Mirkwood Forest." Bucky arched a confused eyebrow. "From the Hobbit?" Peter offered. "No? Um, Aragog's lair in The Chamber of Secrets?"

"I'm guessing these are movies?" Bucky asked.

"Oh, yeah, I guess you wouldn't…I mean, have you…?"

"I've seen movies, if that's where you're going with that question," Bucky cut him off. "I'm not _that_ old."

Peter blushed again. "Oh! Right! I'm sorry, Mr. Winter Soldier Sir, I—"

"And you can call me Bucky," Bucky told him. 'Mr. Winter Soldier Sir' was a little bit cute, but only because the kid was so flustered when he said it.

"I…really?" He blinked at him in awe. "Wow. O—okay. Thank you. Uh, Bucky. Sir." Well, it was a start.

"So, what're you going to do while Stark's got you on lockdown?" Bucky wondered. "I'm thinking it'll take him a while to clean up that lab."

"Yeah, probably," Peter agreed. He looked around the room. "I finished my homework before I came, so…" His eyes landed on his backpack and he perked up. He yanked it open and pulled a box from the bottom. He held it up excitedly, the contents rattling merrily. "I do have this! I just got it, and I was gonna wait until next week and work on it with my friend, Ned, but since I'm stuck in here…" He looked down at the box, then up at Bucky with a shy, hopeful look that reminded him an awful lot of another scrawny little awkward teenager he used to know (except that one was blond). "Would you…maybe want to do it with me?"

Bucky really had just come in here to figure out who it was that Stark was yelling at, not to babysit, but the kid just looked so hopeful that he found himself saying, "Sure. Why not?" It wasn't like he had anything else to do anyway.

Peter beamed like Christmas had come early and dropped down to sit cross-legged on the floor and open the box. Bucky sat down with him and looked at the lid. "Hey, I know this," he said, recognizing the logo. "Star Wars. I've seen these." Sam had introduced him to them, along with Steve. (Sam had been offended that Steve had been out of the ice as long as he had without watching Star Wars. Bucky had gotten a pass.) "These are great."

Peter looked up, puzzled at first, then smiled. "Yeah!" he agreed. "I mean, they're pretty old, but they're pretty sweet. This one's Return of the Jedi. You know the part at the end, with the Emperor and Darth Vader and Luke?"

"Before the Death Star blows up? Yeah," Bucky nodded. He studied the image on the box. He knew the movie—which was rare. Sam would be so proud.—but he still wasn't sure what all this was. "Is this a game?" he asked. There were a hell of a lot of little pieces.

"Well, kind of," Peter explained, opening one of the bags and dumping a pile of pieces onto the floor. "It's Legos. You stick them together to build things. I mean, you can make anything out of 'em, but there's instructions to make the Death Star, like on the box. And, see? Here's the people. Lego Darth Vader with his lightsaber, and—ooh! The Emperor has lightning bolts! Cool!" The little hooded figure did indeed come with translucent blue lightning-shaped pieces which Peter snapped gleefully into its hands, making little electric noises with his mouth.

Bucky and Peter spent a while sorting pieces out into piles of colors. With very little prompting, Peter babbled happily about where he lived in Queens, his school and his friends. He was quite the little chatterbox, which, contrary to what people might think, sort of suited Bucky. He didn't talk much, but he generally didn't mind listening. And it's not like the kid was annoying or anything. A little awkward, sure, but he seemed to just be excited for life in general. Bucky wondered if that was because he was young, or if that was unique to Peter. It had been a very long time since Bucky had been young.

"So," Peter asked, snapping together part of the base. "Is it cool if I ask, do you have, like, super powers and stuff? I mean, it's cool if you don't want to talk about it. I just, I haven't met any of the other Avengers except for Dr. Banner and Colonel Rhodes, so I was just wondering."

Bucky finished the segment of flooring he was working on before answering. (There was something oddly satisfying about the way the little pieces clicked together.) "I guess you could say that," he allowed. "It's pretty similar to what Steve—Captain America—has, just, not as much of it. Endurance, strength, healing, that sort of thing. And this," he added, shrugging his metal arm. He'd never really thought of it as a super-power, but he supposed it counted as an 'enhancement'. Or whatever the kids were calling it these days.

Peter nodded. Bucky had caught him casting what were probably supposed to be covert glances at the arm. He'd wondered how long it would take him to ask about it. "Is it, I mean, does it, does it work like a normal arm?" Peter wondered.

"So far," Bucky said, holding up the metal hand and wiggling the fingers.

"How?" Peter wondered. "It's gotta connect to your nerves somehow, right? But, like, how do the signals from your brain cross over into the machinery?"

"I don't know," Bucky shrugged. "They didn't really explain it when they stuck it on."

"Oh." Peter blushed. "Right. Sorry." He looked back down at his part of the base, fumbling the pieces a little in his fingers.

Bucky hadn't meant to make him feel bad. He got kind of snappy talking about Hydra—justifiably so, he felt—but it's not like the kid would know any better. "It's alright," Bucky told him. "Don't worry about it."

Peter was still blushing, but he smiled and asked instead what kind of music Bucky liked.

Bucky wasn't sure how long they sat there—the sun was starting to set, though, and an impressive skeletal Death Star had taken place on the floor. His phone buzzed just as Peter's stomach let out a long grumble, and Bucky smirked. "Hungry?" he asked, pulling out his phone.

"Yeah," Peter replied. "I skipped lunch."

"Well," Bucky said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. Steve and Nat had run into some weather and would be a little longer getting back. And he was hungry too. "You wanna hit pause on the building and go find something to eat?"

Peter frowned. "I'm supposed to stay here."

Bucky grinned. "Well, what Stark doesn't know won't hurt him, right?" Peter's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "You're grounded, right? So, we shut the door—for all he knows, you're sulking—and we go off the balcony. You're what, fifteen? You should know how to sneak out."

Peter grinned, and Bucky held up a warning finger. "I'll teach you how to sneak out, but you use this carefully, alright? I don't want to hear that you're going out and getting in trouble."

"With great power comes great responsibility," Peter said solemnly. "I'll use the knowledge wisely, sir."

"Alright, so shut the door," Bucky said with a grin.

Peter swung the door shut, grabbed his jacket, and hit a button that sent the stereo blaring to life.

"Nice touch," Bucky said with a nod, moving out to the balcony. The kid showed promise. "Alright…" He looked over the edge of the balcony. They were only on the 11th floor, and had it been just him, Bucky probably would have just jumped for it—there was another balcony three floors down, and another one a few below that. Bad advice to give a kid, though.

"So, do we jump?" Peter asked.

"Nope," Bucky replied, shaking his head. "That's a bad plan. I'm going to show you how to do this safely. You know how to pick a lock?" Peter shook his head. "Watch and learn." He crossed to a door on the far side of the balcony that Bucky knew led to a Maintenance stairwell. "Now, in all honesty," he started, fishing in his pocket for the paperclip he kept for just such an occasion. "We could've just gone out the door. Stark's knee-deep in spiderwebs, it's not like he'd see you. But this is good for you to know. Watch."

He knelt by the lock, narrating each step as he unlocked it. When it clicked open, he smiled at Peter's impressed little gasp, reached inside and locked it again. "Now you try," he said, holding out the paperclip.

It took him a couple of tries, but Peter got the lock open. "Nice work," Bucky said, patting him on the shoulder. Peter smiled proudly. "I taught Steve—Captain America," he clarified, catching the look on Peter's face. "How to do this when we were fourteen. You catch on quicker than he did."

"Really?" Peter asked, beaming.

"He kept breaking the paperclip," Bucky explained. He did have to shush Peter several times as they made their way down the stairwell—as he kept reminding him, one of the key attributes of stealth was silence. The kid was going to need to work on that one. He pointed out a few tips, like how to check doorways and avoid cameras. (He knew that on some level, this was all moot anyway—J.A.R.V.I.S. could probably see all of this—but the principal was sound, and it was good for the kid to know.)

Peter laughed once they were out on the street. "That was awesome."

"You like pizza?" Bucky asked.

"Only always," Peter replied.

They found a little place a block away from the Tower—not too far, in case Stark finished with the web mess quicker than expected and freaked out that the kid was gone. "So," Bucky said after the waitress had taken their order. "Tell me about this girl you like. You said her name was Liz?" He very rarely had flashbacks these days, and he was pretty sure most of his memories were back now, but he was remembering now that he used to be pretty good with kids. It was nice to know that hadn't gone away.

A happy, embarrassed smile stretched across Peter's face—the kind Steve used to get back during the War when he talked about Peggy. Bucky grinned. Oh, the kid had it bad.

"Oh, uh, yeah, well, she…She's two years older than me, so, you know, upperclassman and everything. Kind of intimidating. But she's _so_ pretty. And smart! She's the head of our Academic Decathlon Team, and she knows, like, everything."

Peter had mentioned it earlier, but Bucky still wasn't entirely sure what an Academic Decathlon Team was. Like a quiz group, or something. Something for smart kids.

"Hey, um, so, could I ask you…" Peter started. He shifted a little uncomfortably, like he wasn't sure how to continue the question. "Would you have any, I mean, if I wanted to talk to Liz, would you know…"

"Are you trying to figure out how to ask her out?"

Peter turned several shades of red in rapid succession. "Well, wow, I mean, uh, yeah, I guess, eventually, but, like, I don't…"

Bucky chuckled. "You've never actually talked to her, have you?"

"Not really. I mean, a little. Like, you know, team stuff. And I say 'hi' and things…"

"Well, talking to her would be a good place to start."

Peter sighed. "I know. But when I see her, I'll go to try to say something, and it's like I forget all the words, and I just sort of ramble about stupid stuff and then she leaves."

Once again, Bucky was reminded of Steve. It had taken forever before he'd been able to have a coherent conversation with Peggy. It was, well, it had been ridiculous, but kind of adorable. Bucky smiled. "Okay. So, just start slow. You said you talk to her about team stuff, so, just do more of that. Build up some confidence talking about stuff you know, then once you realize you can talk to her without sounding like an idiot, you can branch out into other topics."

Peter was nodding slowly as Bucky spoke. "Yeah. Yeah, that's, that's good. I can do that."

The pizza arrived then and Peter's stomach growled again. "That's a lot of pizza," Peter said, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugged. "Super-strength, super-metabolism." He grinned. "You should see pizza nights when Thor shows up." Last pizza night in the Tower, Nat and Clint had built a fort out of pizza boxes in an attempt to prove their point that the amount of pizza consumed by two super-soldiers and an Asgardian was not normal.

Peter's eyes widened. "Whoa." They concentrated on the food for a while after that, Peter putting away an impressive amount of pizza himself. It had been a long time since Bucky had been a teenager, but he supposed they _did_ eat a lot.

"Hey, so, what do you wanna do now?" Peter asked as they left the restaurant.

"We're gonna go back to the Tower. You're grounded, remember?" Bucky reminded him.

Peter's face fell. "Oh, yeah."

"Another important rule of sneaking out is that you don't wanna push it," Bucky told him as they walked. "You always want to keep an eye on the time."

Peter looked up at him curiously. "How do you know so much about sneaking out?"

"Well," Bucky started. "A lot of this applies to stealth on missions too."

"Oh."

Bucky smiled. "But I did my fair share of sneaking out before that. I used to be a teenager, you know."

"Yeah, like a hundred years ago," Peter replied with a cheeky smile.

"Watch it, kid," Bucky warned, giving him a good-natured shove.

Peter stumbled several steps before catching his balance, grinning. "What kind of stuff did you sneak out to do?" he wondered.

Bucky thought back. "Mostly harmless stuff. The fair down at the pier. Movie theater. Keeping Steve from getting in fights. Moonlight walk with a girl." Peter grinned and Bucky smiled as a particular girl came to mind. "There was this one girl, Vicki Marlowe…" He shook his head, smile widening. "Gorgeous red hair, a smile like sunshine, and these amazing green eyes you could just get lost in…" She'd had some other very attractive attributes too, but the kid didn't need to know everything.

"Yeah?" Peter prompted.

"Oh, look, we're back at the Tower," Bucky said. Like he'd said, kid didn't need to know everything. "So, sneaking back in is just as important as sneaking out. You get caught going in, there was no point being careful going out in the first place…" He reviewed Peter on some of the stealth techniques they'd gone over coming out while he looked for a good way back in. (Again, they could've just gone through the front door, but if you were gonna start the lesson, you may as well finish it.)

Around the back, there was a car parked under a second-floor balcony, and it was an easy enough climb. He had Peter pick the lock to get in, then had him choose the way to get back up to the 11th floor. Not the route Bucky would have chosen, but it worked. Not bad for his first time. His room was the way they'd left it—door shut, stereo blaring. No sign that Stark had been up looking for him. Bucky opened the door and shut off the stereo and was about to congratulate Peter on getting better at this stealth thing when Peter looked over Bucky's shoulder and let out a high-pitched shriek of surprise.

Bucky spun around and then huffed a laugh. "Hey, Steve."

Steve had evidently just come in from the kitchen, still wearing the Captain America suit (minus the helmet). "Hey, Buck," Steve replied. "Hi…"

"Peter," Bucky supplied, when Peter continued to stare, wide-eyed.

"Hi, Peter," Steve said, clearly unsure who this kid was, but polite as always.

"H-hi, Mr. Captain America Sir," Peter croaked.

"Breathe, kid," Bucky said. He turned back to Steve, saving Peter the trouble of trying to say anything else and running the risk of passing out. "Good trip?"

"Yeah," Steve nodded. "Sorry it took longer than we thought getting back. Tony said he thought you were still up here, though. Was everything okay here?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Steve nodded in the direction of the stairwell. "Tony's lab looks like it was attacked by a giant spider or something."

Bucky snorted. "No, uh, that was—"

"That—that was my fault, Mr. Captain Sir," Peter said, having remembered how to breathe again. "I was, well, see, the—"

"Weird future science," Bucky summarized.

"Got it," Steve said, nodding. They used that explanation for a lot of what went on in the Tower. "So—"

"Peter!" the voice of Tony Stark echoed down the hall. The owner of the voice appeared a moment later, covered in wispy, sticky spiderwebs. Bucky didn't even try to contain his snort of laughter. Steve laughed softly, as if he was trying not to, and even Peter looked equal parts wary and amused.

"Yes, sir?" he asked, trying not to smile.

"This isn't funny," Stark growled. Bucky snorted again and Steve laughed, and Stark spun around on his heel, pointing a warning finger at them. "Not funny," he repeated. He turned back to Peter. "How the hell do you get this stuff off?"

"Well, you can just cut it, but it dissolves after a couple of hours…" Peter began.

"No, no!" Stark insisted. "You're going to get this stuff off of me and off of my lab right now."

"I think I have an idea," Peter said, still smiling a little. "Can I…Can I come down to—"

"Yes, fine, you can come out of your room. But what did we learn from this?"

"Double-check my math before doing science?" Peter said.

"And?"

"And…uh, the centrifuge is not a toy."

"Right. Let's go." Stark stalked back towards the kitchen, Peter trailing after him.

"It was nice to meet you, Mr. Captain America Sir," Peter said as he passed. "I'm a big fan. And, uh, thanks, Bucky," he said, smiling shyly. "I had a great time."

Bucky nodded and smiled. "Stay out of trouble, huh?"

Peter's grin widened. "Oh, always, sir. You know me."

Bucky chuckled and Peter waved and left. The kid was alright.

"Busy day?" Steve asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

"Not bad," Bucky said with a nod. "He's a good kid."

"Who is he?" Steve asked.

"I think he's Stark's kid."

Steve's eyebrows shot up into his hair. "Tony has a kid?!" He looked toward the kitchen where they'd disappeared. "How did I miss that?"

"I'm glad that wasn't just me," Bucky said. He'd been hoping that he hadn't been given that information earlier and then forgotten it. That still happened sometimes. "But he said he's in and out—lives in Queens."

"Hmm," Steve mused, considering this new information. "Alright. I mean, he definitely came along before Tony and Pepper got together, so I guess that makes sense." He looked back at Bucky. "Were you babysitting?"

Bucky shook his head. "I was up here waiting for you when the kid got grounded for whatever happened in the lab. Stark told me to make sure he didn't leave his room and I went in to talk to him. We did some stuff with Legos, I taught him how to sneak out of his room and we went and got pizza."

"Bucky!" Steve chastised.

"What?" Bucky shrugged innocently. Steve glared and Bucky grinned. "Don't get all sanctimonious with me, Stevie. Who exactly taught who how to sneak out again?"

Steve blushed. Bucky may have taught him how to pick a lock, but that was only after Steve had already taught _him_ how to sneak out. "Yeah, alright. Fair enough," Steve agreed.

"He's a good kid," Bucky said again. "I wouldn't worry." He smiled. "He reminded me a lot of this other skinny little punk I used to know. I think you'd like him."

Steve chuckled. "Hey, what are Legos?"

"That," Bucky said, pointing into Peter's room at the half-finished Death Star. "They're pretty awesome. We should get some for the apartment."

"Yeah, alright. Hey, Nat and I are still gonna go get food. I know you said you had pizza, but…"

"Yeah, I'll come." He'd had dinner, sure, but there was always dessert. He followed Steve back out into the hallway. "You think Nat knows Stark has a kid?"

(As it turned out, Natasha was just as unaware of the information as Steve had been, though she didn't seem surprised. It wasn't until much later that the team discovered that Stark just had this tendency to collect and mentor the occasional genius kid—Peter wasn't actually related to him at all. After having watched him interact with the kid, everyone just assumed Peter was his—to Stark's annoyance—and found this revelation quite surprising. Much to everyone else's amusement and Stark's exasperation, no one was more surprised to learn that Peter wasn't his son than his best friend of two decades, Colonel James Rhodes.)

* * *


	15. In The Dark I Have No Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's coming to you by request of MagmiaFlair, who asked for the inside of Bucky's head during the early days of his return. Naturally, that lends itself to some Sad Bucky, and you guys know by now that I'm not gonna say no to that. But I can't leave the poor guy that way, so it'll be sweet too.
> 
> So, Bucky's been back for just a few days, and has not been sleeping well. He's got to do some figuring out of things in the dark. (Plus, you get Bucky in some over-sized jammies he borrowed from Steve since he doesn't have any yet, and how precious is the mental image of skinny little fresh-off-the-streets Bucky in a giant Captain America sweater?)
> 
> The title's a line from 'Hopeless Wanderer' by Mumford and Sons.

* * *

He woke up with a strangled scream, gasping for air and shivering like he'd just come out of the ice. His body tensed in anticipation of the words and the chair and the pain before it clicked that he wasn't in the lab. Wherever he was, it was dark and warm—the cold in his bones was a phantom memory, fading as he came awake, and he shook with fear and adrenaline, not the weakness of frozen muscles. He hadn't been in the ice.

His eyes searched the room in the moonlight filtering through the window. Wherever he was, he was alone. Relief seeped into his chest—there was no one here watching him. He would not be punished for making noise, for being afraid. He didn't know why he was afraid. Someone screamed in the back of his mind, and there was pain and fire and death and maybe he was the one screaming or maybe it was someone else, but he pulled his thoughts away before the noise got too loud. Whatever it was, he didn't want to look.

Was he on a mission? Those were the only times he slept—on a cot, or a bench, or the floor, and not in the ice. He couldn't remember what he was doing—who was the target? What was the objective? Where was he?—and the fear came back. If he didn't know his mission, he couldn't complete it. And if he couldn't complete it…He rarely failed a mission, because he knew what would happen if he did. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered, drawing back against the wall, suddenly wondering if they weren't watching after all. He could do the mission, he could do it! He just needed to know his orders. But he couldn't ask for them. His handlers didn't like to repeat themselves. What should he do?!

But… _was_ he on a mission? This room looked familiar. He'd seen it before, and they never sent him to the same place twice. He wasn't wearing his combat gear, nor did he see it anywhere. He was wearing something warm and soft—loose-fitting pants and a sweater that was too big. There was an image on the sweater that…he knew that. He'd seen that. What was it? This…this wasn't a mission. This was—what was the word? It was right there, just out of reach. He brushed his metal fingers across the star on his sweater, the red and white circles. He'd seen this. Not long ago, but also very long ago. This wasn't a mission, but he still couldn't find the word for what it was.

Carefully, he pushed himself off the bed, moving for the door. He didn't know where he was. He didn't think it was dangerous, but he didn't know where he was. A sickening jolt in his stomach pointed out that he also didn't know _who_ he was. Because this wasn't a mission, and he wasn't the Asset. Not anymore. He didn't do that anymore. He got away. He was…he was…what was that word, there was a word for it…he was free. He was free and this was…this was that thing he still didn't know. Did he have a name? He thought maybe he did. People had names, and he wasn't the Asset, he was a person now. At least, he thought he was.

He eased open the door and found himself in a hallway. Bare feet moving silently on the carpet, he picked a direction—best to clear the back of the building first. There were things on the wall—photographs, he guessed—but there were no windows in the hallway and there wasn't enough light for them to offer any clue as to where he might be. He came to the next door and eased it open slowly. He heard the sound of breathing and melted back into the shadows. There was someone else here.

The rhythm of the breathing didn't change, the person it came from sleeping peacefully on, and he slunk silently into the new room, hovering by the door. The curtains kept this room darker than the one he had left, but moonlight peeked around the edges, and his sharp vision filled in the rest. A large figure sprawled across the bed, one muscular arm hanging off the edge of the mattress and dangling above the floor. A tangle of blond hair and lines of a familiar face rested on the pillow, and he knew suddenly that if those sleeping eyes snapped open, they would be a soft blue. It was the man on the bridge. No. No, wait, his name was…Steve.

He pressed a hand against the side of his head as his mind was suddenly assaulted with a barrage of images, and he staggered back a few steps into the hallway. Steve. That was Steve. Little Steve, Big Steve, Steve on the ground in an alley, Steve on the front lines, I had him on the ropes, you're taking all the stupid with you, punk, jerk, I thought you were dead, I thought you were smaller, let's hear it for Captain America, that little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight, hold on, take my hand, who the hell is Bucky, but I knew him, please don't make me do this, I'm not gonna fight you, you're my friend, you're my mission, I'm with you to the end of the line…He grabbed the sides of his head and bit his lip to keep from screaming and sank down into a ball on the carpet, shaking as the memories flooded through his brain. Not all of them stayed, but when he could breathe again, enough of them were still there.

Bucky. His name was Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes.

He was in, he wanted to say…New York. This was Steve's house. Steve and his friend Sam, and now, him. They made room for him. Steve saved him. Steve saved him in Europe, a long, long time ago. Steve saved him in Washington, not so long ago. And Steve was saving him now. That's why he was here. That's why he came back. Because Steve always saved him. And maybe it was too late and maybe he didn't deserve it—he probably didn't, not anymore—but Bucky desperately wanted to be saved.

Still a little shaky, Bucky pushed himself off the carpet. He was okay. He was Bucky. That was Steve. He was safe now. He was…He was…There was a word for it. A good word. An important word. He still couldn't remember it.

His wildly pounding heart was finding its regular tempo again, and he eased Steve's door shut, grateful he hadn't woken him. Steve had been gracious and incredibly patient with Bucky in the days since he'd returned, but nobody wanted to be woken up by a panicking amnesiac assassin in the middle of the night. Including the panicking amnesiac assassin himself. Bucky sighed, rubbing his temple as he returned to his room. He knew his head was a mess, and he knew it would take it a long time to sort itself out—if it ever did—but why did it have to do it when he was trying to sleep? Those months of running, hiding out or on the street, he'd slept lightly and badly, nightmares and memories with teeth never far away. They followed him here too, although he'd hoped they wouldn't. Hydra might be dead, but the ghosts weren't ready to let him go yet.

He stopped at the door to his room, not wanting to go back in. He went to the kitchen instead, got a glass of water. The clock on the microwave blinked two seventeen. Too early to get up. But he couldn't…He didn't want to go back to his room. Didn't want to go back to sleep. He didn't like what he saw when he closed his eyes.

He could just sit here. He could sit on the couch in the dark, looking out over the lights of the city and trying not to think about all the things he didn't want to think about. That's what he did last night. But he was tired. He was so tired. He drifted back to his room and stopped in the door again. He was tired, but he was afraid. He could admit that now, no one was going to hurt him or get angry with him. He could say it, but that didn't make it go away.

The longer he stood by his door, the darker the room in front of him seemed to get. Dark like the room where they left him strapped to a table with needles in his arm and voices in his head. Dark like the inside of his cryo-tank. Dark like the place where the Asset lived. He gasped and stumbled back into the wall, breathing hard. No. No, he couldn't go there. He couldn't go in there. The dark was…He lost things in the dark. Things like his name. Like his soul.

He looked longingly down the hall to Steve's door, mere feet away. He wished it was daytime. He wished Steve was awake. The darkness wasn't so bad when Steve was there. The pain stayed farther away. He had a name, and he was safe. He was a person when Steve was there.

Unbidden, a memory flashed through his head, a conversation decades old. A voice, so familiar and yet, so strange, was saying, "…we can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids…"

His eyes drifted to the living room, then back to Steve's door. He chewed on his bottom lip, considering. It was off-script. He'd been assigned a place to sleep, and therefore, it was breaking the rules. And breaking the rules…breaking the rules always hurt. But…he didn't think Steve would mind. Steve wasn't Hydra. And Steve kept saying he was safe here. That no one was going to hurt him. And he trusted Steve. He did. There wasn't a lot he was sure of anymore, but he was sure of that. He drew in a deep breath. Okay. Okay, he was gonna…He was gonna try it.

Once again, he silently eased Steve's door open. This time, the cushions from the couch were tucked under one arm and the quilt from the back of the couch looped over his shoulders. He closed the door, freezing in place as Steve made a snuffling sound into his pillow and shifted under his blanket before relaxing and sleeping on. Bucky crept across the room, quietly arranged the cushions next to the bed, then lowered himself to the floor. For a moment he felt silly—was he really sneaking into Steve's room because he was scared of the dark? Was he ninety-seven, or just seven?

But his unsteady breathing was already slowing to match Steve's. The darkness in his mind was already receding, pulling the pain and the fear with it, and sleep was tugging at his eyelids. He adjusted his position on the cushions, rolling onto his side and drawing his feet up to keep them under the blanket. And if his readjustment rolled his shoulder up against the hand hanging down from Steve's bed, well, so what? He was warm, he was safe, and he thought he might actually sleep well tonight, for the first time since 1945.

Just before sleep claimed him, Bucky smiled. He finally found the word he'd been looking for all night. He knew where he was. _Home_.

* * *


	16. Puppy Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's early days of Bucky's return, and Sam has had an idea. Sweet and fluffy. (Quite literally.)

* * *

It had been a very interesting couple of weeks, having Bucky Barnes in his life. Yeah, he'd promised Steve he would help him find his old friend, and the goal had been to bring him home. Sam had known that from the beginning, and he'd been on board with the possibility of Bucky living with them if they ever found him. That's why they'd gotten a place with three bedrooms, after all. It was just, well, it wasn't what he'd been expecting. He wasn't really sure what he actually _had_ been expecting. And he'd kinda thought he had a handle on the whole traumatized vet/POW thing, seeing as it was what he did for a living. Bucky was just…well, Bucky was Bucky. There wasn't any better word for it.

Bucky had only vaguely remembered Sam at first. Once he connected the dots and realized that he was the guy he'd torn a wing off of and thrown off the helicarrier, he'd apologized and then didn't talk to him for a couple of days. Things were still kind of awkward between them now. Sam was really, really trying not to hold the fact that Bucky had tried to kill him several times against him. He didn't know if Bucky could tell, or if Bucky was just uncomfortable around everybody. They had reached a point where they could have a conversation, even a friendly one, but it only happened when Steve was around. And even then, there was this undercurrent of…something.

The longer Bucky was around, though, the easier it was getting for Sam to see beyond the assassin and what he had sometimes thought might just be long-lost memories of Steve's. He could see James Buchanan Barnes, the wounded soldier, the broken man, who maybe _wasn't_ all that different from the people Sam tried to help every day. He heard bits and pieces, what he knew was only a fraction of what Hydra had done to him, and he marveled at the young man—Sam had never realized before _how_ young—who still clung to his humanity when there shouldn't be any left at all. He was lost, but he was trying, and Sam…Sam could sympathize with that. Sam could do something about that. Steve was trying to save him, and Sam was going to help.

The only person Bucky seemed to feel safe around was Steve. Sam got that. It was hard enough for a POW to come home to people they knew. Bucky knew no one and nothing about the world he'd ended up in. He also got that the only place Bucky seemed to feel safe was in the apartment. At first, Sam had thought it was just because the outside world was full of strangers and strange things and the chance that someone from Hydra would find him. But he quickly realized it wasn't just that. Bucky had thrown off the Winter Soldier, but none of them knew if he would stay away. Bucky was afraid of people, in large part, because he was afraid he would hurt them.

Sam pondered for a while what could be done about that. Not that it wasn't a justified fear, sure, but there had to be a way to conquer it. Bucky had it in him to be dangerous, but if there was a way to show him he didn't _have_ to be…

When it came to him, he took a little more time to figure out how to approach it. Bucky knew he was messed up, and he could be really touchy about it. Sam totally got that. In that way, he was _exactly_ like the people Sam worked with. Sam just wanted to frame his offer in a way that would come across right. He eventually decided it would be best to do it at night, when there were less people around. Even the months Bucky had been on the run, he'd avoided interacting with people as much as possible. Sam and Steve had convinced him a couple of times to join them on early morning runs, when the roads were still deserted, but it was rare. So, they'd go slow. Start it off in a way Bucky was comfortable with.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled down a few names. "Hey, Alicia," he greeted when it rang. "Listen, I've got a favor to ask…" He explained what he wanted to do, and Alicia happily agreed—he'd done the same sort of thing before with other vets he'd helped.

"Steve," Sam said later that evening. Bucky was in the shower. "You know how Barnes is uncomfortable around people who aren't you?"

Steve smiled sadly. "Yeah, I've noticed."

"I have an idea. He needs to see that he can be around other people without hurting them. Once he realizes that, that's a big step in the right direction. I'm not saying we push him," he added. He'd been letting Steve handle most of the interacting with Bucky thus far, and had to keep reminding him to let him set his own pace. "But I've got an option we can offer him. If he takes it, great. If not, it'll keep until he's ready."

"Ready for what?" Sam turned around to see Bucky standing behind him, toweling off his wet hair and eyeing Sam warily. Well, crap, that wasn't how he'd wanted to introduce it.

"If you're up for it," Sam said, regaining his composure. "I'd like to take you somewhere. You and Steve," he added. Bucky wasn't going to go anywhere on his own. That was a long way off.

"Take me somewhere? Outside?" Bucky clarified. Sam nodded. "Why?" he asked.

"Because I think it will help," Sam said. "It's a safe place, there won't be a lot of people around, but I think it will help you figure some stuff out. If you don't want to, that's fine. I just want to put it out there."

Bucky narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He looked down at his feet, then up at Steve, his eyes questioning.

"I think it's up to you, if you want to go or not," Steve said, reading the question in his friend's eyes. "I trust Sam, and if he says it's safe, then it's safe. But if you don't want to go, neither of us will make you."

"And neither of us will be mad at you," Sam added. He knew Bucky was still working on this whole independent thought thing. He was used to being punished for not doing what other people wanted.

Bucky nodded slowly. Sometimes choices needed clarifying before he realized that's what they were, but Sam knew he appreciated the chance to make them. And Sam knew that Bucky didn't really trust him—not for any personal reason, but because he didn't know him—so he was glad Steve had backed the plan, even if he didn't know what it was. Because Bucky trusted Steve.

"Okay," Bucky said at last. "Okay," he said again, like he was talking himself into it. "Let's go."

"Okay," Sam said with a smile. His instinct was to clap Bucky on the shoulder, but he knew he didn't necessarily like being touched. "Might want to grab a jacket, it's a little chilly out." He also knew Bucky really didn't like being cold.

The car ride was quiet and a little uncomfortable. Bucky sat in the back, staring alternatively out the window and at the ceiling, and Sam knew he was psyching himself up for wherever they were going. He really hoped this would work.

"Where are we?" Steve asked when they pulled into a deserted parking lot.

"Kingwood Animal Shelter," Sam said, getting out of the car.

"Animal Shelter?" Bucky asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Sam said. "That cool?"

"I guess."

Sam led them inside to where Alicia was sitting at the front desk reading a magazine. She stood with a smile. "Hi," she said warmly. "I'm Alicia." She extended her hand and Steve shook it and introduced himself. She didn't seem at all offended when Bucky drew back. This was far from her first rodeo. She just kept smiling and gestured for them to follow her. She opened a door for them and waved them inside. "Take as long as you want," she said, then went back to the front.

Both Steve and Bucky stared in surprise at the room in front of them. A knee-high fence stretched across the room a few feet from the door, and on the other side of it, twelve puppies ran toward them, yipping happily and jumping eagerly at the fence.

Bucky looked at Steve, who shrugged, then at Sam. "What? I mean, I don't…"

Sam nodded at the dogs. "Step on over the fence, man. Check 'em out."

Bucky's eyes went wide. "No. No, I…" He backed up a couple of steps.

"It's okay," Sam said encouragingly. "You're not gonna hurt them."

Bucky's eyes snapped to Sam's face, surprised that he'd known what he was thinking. He looked back at the dogs uncertainly. "They're so small…"

"I know," Sam said. "But it's okay. You'll be fine. You don't have to do it. But if you do, I think you'll be surprised at how it turns out."

Bucky chewed on his lower lip, considering. He looked over at Steve, who gave him an encouraging nod and a smile, and he drew in a deep breath, nodded, and stepped over the fence.

For a moment, he stood still, petrified, as the puppies swarmed around his feet. They jumped at his legs and yipped and barked gleefully, and after a moment, he shifted and lowered himself nervously to the floor.

The puppies were beside themselves with joy, clambering over each other in a mad scramble to climb into his lap. A small, unwilling smile tugged up one corner of his mouth, and he readjusted his legs to make more room.

"You brought him here to play with puppies?" Steve asked curiously, moving over to stand next to Sam.

Sam nodded. "Me and Alicia, we do this a lot with some of the people I work with down at the V.A. Some folks, they want something around that won't talk to them. Some people, they want something that's not afraid of them. For some, they need help remembering how to take care of something, and some folks just need something happy." He inclined his head thoughtfully. "I figure Barnes is a little bit of all four." Sam smiled and nodded at Bucky, who had put out a tentative hand for the puppies to smell. "You keep telling me how well he took care of you back in the day. I figure that caretaker instinct, that softer side of him, that's in there somewhere. This seemed like a good way to help him find it."

Steve nodded, eyes on Bucky as a fluffy, short-legged little Corgi puppy tried and failed to climb on to his leg. It yipped pitifully and Bucky reached down his metal hand, scooping it up as carefully as if it was made of porcelain. The puppy stretched out and licked his nose, and a surprised smile stretched across Bucky's face. He pulled the puppy against his chest and it nuzzled against him, happily licking every bit of his neck it could reach. Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, and Steve smiled.

"Thank you," he said to Sam.

Sam smiled back and nodded. He'd really been hoping this would work.

They were there for nearly an hour. The puppies never tired, and the only mind they paid his metal hand was to try to chew on it. The longer Bucky sat there, the less hesitant he became. At first, he'd touched them lightly, barely brushing their fur, but Sam could actually see the realization dawning on his face that he could be gentle—that he could touch these tiny, fragile living things without hurting them.

At last he stood up, bending down to scratch each one behind the ears before stepping back over the fence. He smiled to himself as he brushed the fur from his pants.

"Have fun?" Steve asked him with a smile.

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that was…" He turned to Sam. "Thanks."

Sam nodded. He knew this wasn't a cure-all. It was a step up from puppies to people—and people were far less predictable—but it was a step. Bucky knew now that he could be safe to be around. And yeah, he would probably need reminding of that, and Sam wasn't expecting him to go out in the morning and start talking to strangers or anything, but this was a start.

"Hey, uh, Wilson?" Bucky said quietly once they were out in the parking lot, hanging back as Steve got into the car.

"Yeah, man?"

"You said…you said you knew I wouldn't hurt them, and you were right. How did you know?"

Sam smiled. "Because you don't want to hurt anything. That's not who you are. Maybe you're afraid of what you know you can do, but you don't have to do it. It doesn't define you anymore." Tentatively, he put a hand to Bucky's shoulder. "You're a good guy, Bucky. Steve knows it," he said, nodding towards the car. "And I can see it." He squeezed his shoulder and let go. "I was hoping maybe this would help you see it too."

Bucky swallowed hard and looked down. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright, and he looked off to the side. "Why would you—" He shook his head. "I tried to _kill_ you." He looked back at Sam. "Why are you trying to help me?" he asked unsteadily.

Sam considered his answer. "Because I've been in a hole before too. Granted, not as deep as yours," he allowed with a small smile. "And I know it can take a hell of a long time to get out if you try to do it on your own."

Bucky studied his face for a long moment, then swallowed again and nodded. "Thank you," he said. "I, I don't…" He shut his eyes and shook his head, then looked back at Sam with a small but genuine smile. "Thank you," he said again.

Sam smiled warmly. "Any time, dude." And he meant it. "And hey, you ever want to come back here, just say the word."

Bucky looked back over his shoulder at the shelter as they moved towards the car. "I think I might," he said with a nod. He looked over at Sam. "Steve's not allergic to dogs anymore, right?" Sam nodded and Bucky smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, I think…I think that could be a good idea."

* * *


	17. May The Force Be With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Bucky told Peter that he'd seen Star Wars, so, here we go. Sam introduces the super-soldiers to a galaxy far, far away, and a good time was had by all.
> 
> As far as the timeline goes, Bucky's been back six months or so, which makes this take place before Rogue One came out. (I mention that because I do know why the exhaust port on the Death Star was designed the way it was, but these guys don't. No need to worry.) And the tauntaun joke came from a meme, but, ooh, I wish it was mine. It's my favorite Star Wars joke ever.

* * *

Pizza and movie nights, without anyone officially making it so, had become a weekend tradition in the Barnes/Rogers/Wilson household. If Steve or Sam wasn't away on a mission, then they ordered in enough pizza and garlic bread to feed a small army and searched Netflix, iTunes, or Sam's movie collection for something to watch. Generally, they watched things Sam recommended—lots of movies had happened since 1945. There was a lot to catch up on.

Sam had come to really enjoy those nights, even look forward to them. It was always fun to revisit the old classics, and there was something special about seeing them through new eyes as Steve and Bucky took in everything they had missed. Sam didn't think he'd consciously realized before just how much everyday culture (and Tony Stark) referenced movies and TV shows, and he really got a kick out of watching the super-soldiers watch something Sam had seen a hundred times and have a little 'aha' moment.

Somehow—Sam wasn't sure how this mistake had been made, but _somehow_ , they had made it this far without watching Star Wars. Sam didn't even realize it until they'd been sitting around one evening and Steve, going over a mission report Tony had sent him, asked, "What's a Death Star?"

"Huh?" Sam replied.

Steve pointed at the screen of his tablet. "Tony's report. He's talking about the satellite thing you guys took down last week, and he keeps calling it a mini-Death Star."

"The Death Star," Sam said. "You know, from Star Wars?"

"Oh. I haven't seen that," Steve answered.

"What?!"

"It's on my list. I just haven't gotten to it yet."

"You haven't seen Star Wars?" Sam repeated, appalled. Steve shook his head carefully, like he was afraid that was the wrong answer. "Oh, dude, that's not right!" Sam exclaimed.

"I haven't seen it either," Bucky put in.

Sam waved the comment away. Bucky had extenuating circumstances. "You get a pass. You," he continued, pointing at Steve. "How long have you been out of the ice?"

"Three years," Steve answered.

"That is _more_ than enough time to have watched Star Wars. More than once." He shook his head. "And you call yourself Captain America. This is a disgrace to America is what this is."

Steve smiled. "Okay. Sorry. Should we watch it tomorrow with the pizza, then?"

"Hell, yes, we should," Sam insisted.

And so, that's where they were. Friday night. Movie time. Episode Four.

"Shouldn't we start with Episode One?" Steve wondered.

"Nope," Sam replied. "They made this one first, so we'll start here. It was a whole thing. You don't need the first three to understand this one anyway."

He hit 'play', and the familiar theme song blared out of the speakers at them. He watched, smiling to himself, as Bucky stared at the screen, mouthing the words of the title crawl to himself as he read, while Steve had that little notebook that he always got out when they watched TV balanced on his lap, ready to jot down any pertinent cultural references.

Leia's ship and the Star Destroyer came bursting onto the screen, and Bucky smiled. "I love space movies," he said to no one in particular before taking a bite of his pizza.

Stormtroopers plowed their way through the ship, taking out Rebel soldiers. Threepio and R2 made their way to the chaos, Threepio dithering and R2 chirping. Bucky frowned. "What's up?" Sam asked.

"Is this shiny robot gonna be in the whole movie?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I think I hate him already. The little one seems alright, though."

"So, is he physically taking those plans to Obi-Wan Kenobi?" Steve asked as the droids wandered through the desert. "If they're in space, shouldn't they have, like, email or something?"

"Hush," Sam told him. He'd wondered that himself and did not have a good answer. R2 wandered on through the desert, and Sam caught Bucky's eyes widening in alarm as the Jawas attacked the little droid and it let out an uncomfortably sentient-sounding scream. He resisted the urge to pat Bucky on the arm and tell him it would be okay.

The movie carried on until they arrived on Luke's farm, and something struck Sam as they got their first glimpse of the young farmer. "Dude," he said, reaching over and hitting Bucky's elbow. "He looks like you."

"What?"

"I don't see it," Steve said.

"No, no, wait," Sam said, pausing the movie as they got a close-up of Luke's face. "See?"

"Oh, yeah," Steve agreed.

"It doesn't—" Bucky began.

Sam laughed. "Man, he totally looks like you!"

"He really does," Steve said, turning around to look at Bucky. "You even do that thing with your mouth like he's doing right there."

"I'm still not seeing it," Bucky argued.

Sam cackled, clapping his hands together. The resemblance was freakishly fantastic.

"Can we keep watching the movie?" Bucky grumbled. Sam kept smiling and hit 'play'.

"Oh, that is so cool," Steve breathed as Luke took off into the desert on his hovercar. "I want one of those. Hey," he said, turning back to Bucky. "Remember that demo flying car Howard had at the fair?"

Bucky chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Oh, yeah," he said, smiling. "This one's actually staying up, though."

"Maybe if you ask nice, Tony will build you one," Sam suggested.

Bucky chuckled as Luke commented to Threepio how dangerous Sandpeople were before taking off to have a look at them.

"What?" Steve asked.

"He may look like me, but he sure acts like you," Bucky said, smiling. "Oh, look! A dangerous thing that could kill me. Let me wander off and look at it on my own." He smirked. "Totally you."

"Shut up," Steve complained as the Sandpeople attacked Luke.

"You do do that sometimes," Sam agreed, earning himself a high-five from Bucky and a glare from Steve.

Obi-Wan appeared and saved Luke and the droids. "Forget the hovercar," Bucky said, watching in wonder as Obi-Wan talked about the Force and pulled out the lightsaber. "That is so cool. You think Stark can make one of those?"

"I think if Tony knew how to make a lightsaber, he would have done that a long time ago," Sam said. It would be a very Tony thing to do.

They watched quietly as Luke followed the trail of the Stormtroopers' destruction back to his home. Sam—so used to thinking of the Empire as the big bad guys—realized that this was the point you realize the Empire was actually evil—attacking suspected rebels was one thing, slaughtering civilians, another.

"Oh, _that's_ what that means," Steve muttered to himself at Obi-Wan's 'these aren't the droids you're looking for' line. He made a little note in his notebook.

They picked up Han Solo and Chewbacca and departed. Steve and Bucky were enthralled with the Millennium Falcon, which Sam kind of thought looked like a piece of junk next to the Quinjet, but whatever. " _That_ is the Death Star," he told Steve, pointing at the screen.

"Did they just blow up an entire planet?" Bucky asked, aghast.

"They are the bad guys," Sam said.

"Yeah, but that's just…" Bucky shook his head. "Wow."

"Is this some kind of allegory for the War?" Steve asked. Out of habit, he tended to call World War Two 'the War', even though Sam knew he knew there had been several more since then. "I mean, the Empire is obviously the Space Nazis, so…"

"I don't think it's supposed to be that deep, but yeah, they're Space Nazis," Sam told him.

"So, Vader's Space Hitler, then."

"Kind of. I mean, he's got a boss, but he's not in this movie, so, yeah, we'll call him Space Hitler for now," Sam said.

"Definitely Space Nazis," Bucky said with a smirk as Han and Luke took a couple of Stormtroopers out and snuck off the Falcon in disguise. "They're not that bright." Steve grinned.

They successfully navigated the Death Star and saved the princess. "Space Nazis, and now we've got Space Peggy," Bucky noted as Leia grabbed the gun, took out a couple of Stormtroopers and directed them all into the garbage chute.

Steve laughed and Sam smiled. From everything he'd heard about Peggy Carter, it was a fair comparison.

Steve chuckled as the escape continued and Han ran screaming after the Stormtroopers, brandishing his gun. "That takes guts," he commented. "Maybe this guy's alright." He hadn't been impressed by the roguish con man they'd met earlier.

Obi-Wan and Vader had their lightsaber battle, which wasn't quite as exciting as Sam remembered, having seen the more action-filled prequels, but Bucky was entranced. (Although, neither he nor Steve had expected Vader to win.) The heroes finally escaped and made it to the Rebel base and were preparing for battle. Bucky chuckled at a slightly awkward moment between Luke and Leia. "Oh, he's totally you, Stevie. So smooth with the ladies." Steve responded by throwing his pizza crust at Bucky's face.

The final battle began, and Bucky was watching with his mouth open, looking like a kid at Disneyland. Even Steve had set his little notebook down and was staring in awe. Sam knew they both were fans of this kind of thing, and he wondered what sci-fi looked like in the forties. He'd seen some of the old Doctor Who from the sixties with the wobbly sets, and wondered if big-budget stuff from even earlier fared any better.

"Not that this isn't…This is so cool," Steve said. "But the whole exhaust port thing seems like a serious design flaw on the part of the Death Star architect."

Sam shrugged. "Well, from what I've gathered from the two of you, the Nazis weren't all that bright. Why should Space Nazis be any different?" he asked, getting a laugh out of Bucky and Steve.

"That was awesome!" Bucky declared, once the Death Star had exploded and the credits were rolling. "Man, no wonder everyone likes this movie. That was great! So, the galaxy's all good now, since they won the Star War?" he asked.

Sam took a moment before he answered. He probably shouldn't laugh at Bucky for that. "Well, no, there's more of these. Battle's not over yet. It's still early, you guys want to watch the next one?"

"Sure," Bucky said.

"Sounds great," Steve agreed. He picked up the next DVD in the pile. "The Empire Strikes Back. Good sequel name."

The text crawl and the little probe droid led them down to the surface of Hoth. "They're hiding here?" Steve asked.

"Voluntarily?" Bucky added, incredulous.

"They must really be getting hit hard by the Empire," Steve mused.

"It's a terrible idea," Bucky insisted. "Why the hell would you voluntarily set up shop on a freaking ice planet?"

Sam could think of a couple strategic reasons, but decided not to say anything. He knew neither super-soldier was a fan of the cold.

Bucky glared at the screen as Luke rode across the frozen landscape, shaking his head when he was attacked by the monster and stuck in the ice. Sam assumed he was continuing to be displeased about the snow. Luke escaped, had his vision, and Han appeared to rescue him.

"Ew," Steve remarked as Han sliced the tauntaun open.

"Hey," Bucky asked, nodding at the screen. "What temperature is it inside one of those kangaroo-lizards?"

Sam looked over at him curiously. "What? I don't know. That's a weird question."

Bucky smirked. "I mean, it's gotta be pretty lukewarm, right?"

Steve and Sam stared at him for a moment, then Steve laughed so hard he spat his drink out. He continued to laugh as he got up to get a dishtowel, Bucky laughing along with him.

"That was terrible," Sam said, even as he swallowed down a laugh of his own. He forgot sometimes that Bucky made jokes, although it was happening more than it used to.

"Lukewarm," Bucky said again with a grin, arching an eyebrow.

"No," Sam insisted. "I refuse to laugh at that joke."

"Oh, come on, Wilson, that was funny."

Sam smiled and shook his head and laughed, unable to hold it in any longer. That was actually pretty good.

The Empire swooped in. "You know, I'm kind of digging Vader's theme song," Steve said. "Powerful and kind of scary, and…ooh, that's awkward," he said, nodding at the screen as Vader choked one of his subordinates and promoted the guy standing next to him. "Wouldn't want to be that guy."

"Ooh, now see, _that_ is a good idea," Bucky said with approval as the Rebels started tying up the legs of the walkers. "That's good battlefield thinking right there." Steve nodded along, the tactician in him impressed.

The Rebels managed to escape and Luke took off for Dagobah. "Well," Bucky mused, eyeing the swamp along with Luke. "It's a step up from the ice." He chuckled when R2 fell in the swamp and beeped and whirred at Luke. "I have no idea what he's saying, but I feel like little guy's got an attitude." The scene changed back to Vader, his helmet being slowly lowered onto his head, and Bucky's eyes widened. "Oh, I thought Vader was a robot! But he's a guy in a suit, like Stark."

Sam chuckled. "I won't tell Tony you compared him to Darth Vader."

Back on Dagobah, Luke was setting up camp when Yoda appeared. "Is that a frog?" Steve asked.

"No," Bucky said. "He's some kind of Muppet." Sam arched a curious eyebrow. He wondered how Bucky knew about the Muppets. He didn't think they'd watched any of those. "Okay, he's no Threepio, but Crazy Muppet's starting to get annoying," he added as Yoda rooted through Luke's things.

"Hold it, _he's_ Yoda?" Steve asked. "Huh. Didn't see that coming."

Yoda argued with the voice of Obi-Wan, eventually agreeing to take Luke on as a student and starting his training. "Man," Steve said, watching them run around. "I guess Camp Lehigh doesn't look so bad now," he said thoughtfully.

"If they had made little asthmatic Steve do boot camp in a swamp, you would have been dead by the end of the first day," Bucky said. "Wow, that looks miserable." He chuckled. "I'm imagining you as Luke here and Phillips as Yoda. Can you see him making you carry him around on your back while you did the obstacle course?"

Steve choked on his drink again as he laughed, and even Sam had to chuckle. He knew the late Colonel Phillips by reputation only, but that was an image he would love to see.

Vader met with his bounty hunters as the Falcon hid out in the asteroid field. "Thank you," Bucky muttered when Leia switched Threepio off. The ship broke away for Bespin, followed unknowingly by Boba Fett. "This is the first nice planet in the movie," Bucky said as they landed in Cloud City.

"Wow, it's beautiful," Steve agreed. "Well, isn't he charming," he said suspiciously as Lando appeared. "Of course, given that Leia seems to be the only woman in the galaxy, I can see why."

Sam laughed. "There are other women."

"Are there, though?" Steve asked. Sam didn't press the issue, as he couldn't actually think of any. He supposed they did up the diversity when they made the prequels. A little. "Why are there so many snakes on this planet?!" Steve exclaimed as the story moved back to Dagobah. Every scene on the planet thus far had had at least one snake creeping around, including one that Luke casually flicked away. "And why does no one care?"

"Steve doesn't like snakes," Bucky said in a stage whisper.

"Getting that," Sam replied with a smirk.

The ghost of Obi-Wan appeared, joining forces with Yoda as they tried to persuade Luke not to leave. "So," Bucky said, gesturing at the glowing blue Jedi. "Since he's dead, is he Ghosty-Wan Kenobi now?"

"You know what, you don't get to make any more Star Wars jokes," Sam said, even as he fought down a smile.

"Oh, not cool, Lando!" Steve called to the screen. Han and Leia had just been betrayed to Vader. "I liked him." He and Bucky were both quiet as Han was imprisoned and tortured, and Sam wondered—even though it was pretty PG—if it was bringing back anything from the war for them. He watched Bucky carefully as they discussed having Han frozen, and he noticed Steve doing the same. Bucky wasn't looking at them, but at the screen, and his breathing was carefully controlled. It looked like he was trying hard to focus just on what was happening in the story and not in his head, and Sam knew that this was definitely bringing back some memories for him—he wished he'd remembered this scene ahead of time so he could've given Bucky a heads up. It was over before he or Steve could think of anything to say, and Bucky's look of intense focus changed to one of confusion as Han was lifted up in the block of carbonite. "That's not how that works," he said, more to himself than to either of them. Then Luke and R2 arrived, and Bucky smirked as they walked the deserted hallways. "Man, Swamp-boy and his robot are looking pretty grubby up here in Cloud City." And he was fine again.

"Oh, good," Steve said as Lando turned on the Stormtroopers. "No, Chewie, stop that, he's on your side now!" he admonished as Chewie attempted to choke Lando.

Bucky grinned. "He was just like this when he was in charge of the Howlies," he said, leaning over to Sam. "Although the fights he broke up were more along the lines of who stole Dugan's hat, or who buried Morita's underwear out in the snow."

"Both of those were you, by the way," Steve said, not turning back to look at them. "Now, shh!" Vader and Luke's big fight was starting.

The fight was not going well for Luke, losing his hand to the surprise of both of the super-soldiers. Sam watched them both intently, waiting for their reaction to the big reveal. He wondered what it was like not to know Vader was Luke's father. He didn't remember being surprised by it—he couldn't remember the first time he'd seen this movie, and sort of felt like he'd always known it.

"No," James Earl Jones growled from the screen. " _I_ am your father."

"WHAT THE HELL?" Steve yelled.

"No way!" Bucky spat.

Sam laughed happily. Oh, he loved watching movies with these two.

The movie ended with Luke's rescue and his new robot hand. "Dang it, they fixed him," Bucky complained at the sight of Threepio, good as new. Lando took off with Chewie in search of Han.

"Wait, that's the end?" Steve asked.

"But what about Han?" Bucky added. "And the…Seriously, he's his _father_?"

Sam laughed. "There's one more. You guys want to watch it tonight?"

"Yeah," they said at the same time.

"I don't know…" Sam teased. "You know, these came out like three years apart. So, Vader drops the bomb, and then everybody had to wait three years to find out what happened. You should have to wait at least a night."

"Don't make me use this," Bucky growled, pointing threateningly at Sam with a knife he'd pulled out of his boot.

"Alright, alright," he said, holding up his hands and smiling. "Return of the Jedi, coming up." He switched out the DVD's, chuckling as Bucky sang along with the theme song under his breath.

"That's not right," Steve said as the opening crawl stretched across the screen.

"What isn't?" Sam wondered. Steve hadn't seen this—what was there for him to disagree with?

"There should be a comma there," Steve said, pointing to the text. "Between gangster and Jabba. Just putting 'vile gangster Jabba the Hutt' doesn't work."

"Oh, my gosh, you're such a nerd, Stevie," Bucky said, covering his face with his hand.

Sam chuckled and Steve made a _hmph_ sound and said, "Doesn't mean I'm not right."

"Oh, good," Bucky said sarcastically as R2 and Threepio approached Jabba's palace. "I needed more of this guy in my life," he said, gesturing at the gold robot.

Sam frowned as Jabba's party kicked back into gear—he'd forgotten this whole little musical bit was stuck into the remastered version. It bothered him slightly that the CGI and the puppets didn't quite match up.

Steve was grinning, though, as the camera panned around the various shady occupants of the room. "Wow, this brings back some memories."

"Of what?" Sam wondered. "You hanging out at alien parties?"

Steve's smile widened. "No, but we hung out in some of the sketchiest bars you've ever seen back during the War."

"Aliens aside, the similarities aren't too far off," Bucky added.

Steve turned back to Bucky. "Hey, remember that one awful place in…Carcassonne, I think, called The Pig's Ear? That place was a hole," he added to Sam.

Bucky looked thoughtful. "No," he said at last. "I mean, we saw a lot of seedy places, and, you know…" He gestured at the side of his head.

Steve looked sympathetic, but decided to press on, hoping to jog his memory. "Dugan was the only one dumb enough to drink anything, and he got cholera."

"I do remember that happening," Bucky said. "Man, Phillips was pissed."

They watched curiously as the little mysterious bounty hunter brought in Chewbacca. "Hit him again!" Bucky urged when Jabba got angry during the negotiations and knocked Threepio off the platform. Sam chuckled. If Bucky found the droid this annoying, he might just start punching things once they got to the prequels and Jar Jar Binks showed up.

Leia snuck back in to the main hall and began unfreezing Han. Both Steve and Sam kept looking surreptitiously at Bucky, but they didn't need to worry. Bucky was watching with a raised eyebrow, looking skeptical. He snorted, unimpressed, when Han sat up and started talking. "Oh, yeah. Cause _that's_ how that works. What?" he said, noticing Steve and Sam looking at him. "You can't…" He pointed at the screen. "He's all talking and moving and everything. That's not—they didn't even try. He's not cold or wet or anything," he complained.

"His clothes look kind of damp to me," Sam said.

Bucky shook his head and snorted, then threw a pillow at Steve. "I'm fine, Steve," he said. Steve had still been looking at him, not hiding his concern well (he never really could). The snap in Bucky's tone didn't fool either of them—he appreciated the lookout—and Steve smiled and turned back to the movie.

"Give me my pillow back," Bucky said as Han joined Chewie in prison.

"No," Steve replied, folding his arms around it.

"Sam…" Bucky whined.

"Hey, don't drag me into this, you pair of overgrown toddlers," Sam warned.

A fight broke out on the sail barge, Luke having evidently brushed up on his lightsaber skills, and the pillow was forgotten as they enjoyed the action. Steve chuckled as Boba Fett was accidentally knocked into the Sarlaac Pit with an undignified scream. "Well, that's an embarrassing way to go," he said.

Leia, meanwhile, had taken out Jabba the Hutt and was shooting things up with the rail gun. "Oh, I _like_ her!" Bucky said. "She's totally Space Peggy. Get it, girl!"

Steve and Sam looked at each other in amusement at his last comment. If Sam had to guess, he'd say Bucky heard that from Clint. It was the sort of thing he could hear Barton saying, and was definitely _not_ something that sounded like a natural part of Bucky's vocabulary.

"So, they're making a new one," Steve remarked at the sight of the half-finished Death Star. "I hope it occurred to one of them to put something over that hole this time. Man, he's creepy," he added as the Emperor appeared for the first time in the flesh.

"Well, he's Space Hitler," Sam reasoned. "He should be creepy, right?"

"I never found Hitler creepy," Bucky said conversationally. "I mean, evil, sure, but creepy? Eh," he said with a shrug. "Now, that Hydra guy," he continued, looking over at Steve. "The one whose name I am forgetting, but he peeled his face off?"

"Schmidt," Steve supplied.

"Yes!" Bucky agreed. "He was pretty creepy. Although, the face peeling probably had a lot to do with that."

"Someone peeled their face off?" Sam asked.

"It was disgusting," Steve said, oddly casually. "Johann Schmidt, I've told you about him."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. He'd never made the connection that the Red Skull had, at some point, had a normal face. "The face peeling never came up before, though."

"Ssh!" Bucky shushed them. Luke was back on Dagobah, and Yoda wasn't looking well. "Aw," he said softly, as Yoda vanished. "Wait, there's another one? Are we supposed to know who it is?" he asked, turning to Sam.

"No. You didn't miss anything," Sam assured him, knowing what Bucky was actually asking. Bucky did sometimes forget things after hearing or seeing them, but not nearly as often as he worried that he did.

"A certain point of view?" Steve grumbled. "Ghosty-Wan's trying to get out of having lied to Luke with semantics?"

"Hey, no, no, we're not calling him that," Sam protested, even as Bucky cackled triumphantly.

"Wait, WHAT?" they both exclaimed as Luke realized Leia was his sister.

"Not like there are many other girls around, though," Steve said, after it sank in. "We probably should have seen that coming."

"Ooh, that makes that kiss awkward," Bucky pointed out. Steve wrinkled his nose.

"Aw, the gang's all back together again," Bucky said happily, as Han, Leia and Luke were reunited and heading for the Death Star. He chuckled a few minutes later when Han told Chewie to fly casual.

They landed on the forest moon and quickly got separated, chasing down the Stormtroopers. "Did she just kill him with a stick?" Steve wondered as Leia took down a Stormtrooper with a branch. "Why even wear armor at this point?"

"Oh, it'll get better," Sam said, thinking of the upcoming battle with the Ewoks.

"See? _This_ is a useful robot," Bucky said, waving at the screen as R2 revealed a little saw and cut them free of the net. He looked down thoughtfully at his metal hand. "Maybe I should get one of those."

"Okay, so, they might be trying to eat them, but these little guys are kind of cute," Steve commented, watching the Ewoks. "And," he added. "I approve of their tree village. I think these are the only people we've seen in the entire galaxy who are aware of the concept of safety rails. I like these bears."

"Says the man who flings himself out of windows on a regular basis," Sam pointed out. Steve ignored him, but Bucky reached across the couch for a fist bump.

The Ewoks were getting awfully close with their torches, and then Luke was using the Force and Threepio was floating around and yelling and they were being set loose. "What?" Bucky demanded. "WHAT?" He gripped a hand to his chest, grimacing. "That hurts, that actually, physically hurts."

"What does?" Sam asked.

"That stupid robot is the one who saved their lives?!"

"I mean, technically, it was Luke," Steve said, turning around.

"Yeah, but it…" Bucky slumped against the back of the couch with a groan. "This is a cruel galaxy."

Sam looked at Steve and they both smiled, but refrained from commenting.

Vader arrived, and Sam noticed Bucky watching Vader intently as he interacted with Luke. Sam thought he looked hopeful. He wondered suddenly if Bucky wasn't empathizing with the Sith Lord—someone who'd done a lot of bad being offered redemption most wouldn't say they deserved by someone who loved them enough to try to save them. Sam was glad the movie would end happily in that respect. That would be good for Bucky to see.

The scenes switched back and forth between space and the forest, where the little Ewoks were holding their own. "The Stormtroopers have to be the worst bad guys ever," Steve decided. "I mean, they're tough little bears, but they've got rocks and sticks. If your armor can't protect you from a two-foot tall bear with a stick, you've got problems. I'm pretty sure that one right there just fell over on his own."

The Ewoks were proving victorious, but Luke wasn't faring quite so well on the Death Star. Bucky sounded as though he was barely breathing as he watched the confrontation. Sam noticed Steve shooting glances over at him as well, guessing what was on his mind. Sam didn't want to spoil the movie, but he gave Steve a nod to let him know he didn't need to worry. (As if he would stop.)

Both Steve and Bucky jumped in surprise when the Emperor began shooting lightening from his hands. Luke screamed on the floor, begging his father to save him, and maybe it was the flickering light from the TV, but Sam was pretty sure Bucky's eyes were watering. He stared, open-mouthed, as Vader finally acted, picking up the Emperor and tossing him into the abyss. The delighted, relieved smile on Bucky's face was a beautiful thing, and Sam found himself unexpectedly teary. Steve had caught it too and was smiling softly.

Luke took off Vader's mask and saw his father for the first time, and maybe it was overflow from watching Bucky, but Sam found himself more touched by the scene than he remembered, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve.

Everyone reunited back on the moon, victorious amid dancing and fireworks. "There you go, Stevie," Bucky said, gesturing to the Ewoks who were playing the Stormtrooper helmets like a xylophone. "Finally found a good use for their armor."

Steve laughed. "As long as they don't hit them _too_ hard with those sticks," he chuckled.

"I'm guessing that's Anakin's ghost on the end there," Bucky said, pointing to where the ghosts of Jedi past were lined up smiling at Luke.

"Is he, like, twenty?" Steve wondered.

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. I guess we'll have to watch the prequels some time. It's from before he went Dark Side."

"Oh." Steve nodded. "Yeah, I guess a robot suit wouldn't really have a ghost, would it? Hey, thanks, man," he said, as the credits started to roll. "That was great."

"Those were fantastic," Bucky agreed, standing up and stretching. "I can see what all the fuss was about."

Steve grinned, getting to his feet and grabbing empty pizza boxes. "So, can I be Captain America again? I'm not disgracing the flag anymore?" he asked with a smirk.

"Title reinstated, Captain," Sam told him, giving him a quick salute. "Hey, where's my phone?" he asked, looking around.

"I think you left it on the counter," Steve said, moving into the kitchen. "Why?"

Sam grabbed another pizza box and followed Steve, scooping his phone up from next to the toaster. "Gonna look up Mark Hamill, see if he's related to Barnes." He looked over at Bucky who rolled his eyes. "You had a sister, right? She have any kids?"

* * *


	18. Catch You When You Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, I was re-watching the Captain America trilogy one weekend, as you do, and I realized that while we joke about Steve recklessly jumping off of high things, he doesn't actually start doing this until The Winter Soldier. In TFA, he jumps out of a plane with a parachute, and he doesn't really do any reckless jumping in Avengers either (which, in his brain, is not long after TFA). So, in the words of Colonel Chester Phillips, here's my brilliant theory. Steve starts recklessly throwing himself off of high things because he is subconsciously trying to make up for not throwing himself off the train after Bucky. I shared this theory with my friend and she yelled at me, which told me I was on the right track for a good angsty chapter. It also enabled me to fulfill a request by By7the7sea, who wanted to see the boys have the train conversation after it came up briefly in the chapter where Steve was sick. So, ta-dah! Angst and manly hugging and a little bit of fluff.

* * *

Bucky had been really nervous about his first mission with the Avengers. He hadn't been on a mission as one of the good guys in seventy years. He wasn't really sure what he'd been expecting—it had been seventy years since he'd worked with a team, too—but the rest of the group had been great. Barton would lean over and explain references that Stark made that Bucky didn't get and Nat had offered to share her extensive armory until he could build up one of his own. He'd been worried that everyone was going to be watching him and worrying if he was going to break, but—and maybe Steve had had something to do with this—everyone acted as though he'd always been there. Well, everyone but Thor, who said he had heard from Steve what a valiant warrior he was and was so incredibly excited that Bucky was joining them that little sparks of lightning kept dancing around his hammer. That was a little overwhelming, but also, it was kind of nice to feel that welcomed.

So, yeah, first mission appeared to be shaping up pretty good. At least, until they arrived and were circling the target in the Quinjet, looking for a place to land. Stark, Sam and Thor went out the back of the plane, and, sure, they could fly. Why not? What Bucky was not expecting was Steve—who, last time he checked, could _not_ fly—to go right after them.

"No, Steve!" Bucky exclaimed as his best friend leapt out of the plane _without a parachute_.

"What?" Nat asked, looking up as the hatch closed behind the jumpers.

"Steve just…" Bucky didn't have any words, gesturing toward the door. She and Barton looked at him like they were waiting for him to continue. "He wasn't wearing a parachute!" Bucky added. Why was Bucky the only one worried about this?

"Yeah," Barton agreed. "He does that."

"What?!"

Nat shrugged. "I don't think I've ever seen him use a parachute."

"He does if there's not a water landing," Barton remarked, testing his bow string. "Usually. He used one in Romania," he added, looking up at Nat.

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Okay, so I've seen him use one once."

Bucky was still struggling to find the words he wanted. This should not be something people were so casual about. "He jumps out of planes without parachutes on a regular basis?" he clarified.

"Mm-hmm," Barton replied. "Out of planes, off buildings, whatever. Fastest way down, I guess."

The Quinjet touched down and Steve's voice came over their comms, directing them to the west side of the building. Okay. Things to do, bad guys to maim. Bucky could table this for a later time. But this was _not_ over.

* * *

The mission had gone off without a hitch. Bucky had been on enough missions in his day to know that that wasn't always the case, but he was glad it had turned out that way for his first one with the Avengers. He'd done what he was supposed to do, proving to both the team and himself that he could be trusted. And it had felt…It had felt really _good_ to know he was doing something to help make the world a better place, instead of a worse one. Maybe he really could be one of the good guys again after all.

Of course, successful mission aside, Bucky had not forgotten the whole parachute incident. No one else had seemed bothered by it—and that only irked him further, that Steve had convinced them all that that was somehow okay—so Bucky decided to wait until they got home to have the conversation.

They landed at the Tower, then he and Steve caught a ride home while Sam was going to shower at the Tower and rush off to make it to a date. They thanked Stark's driver and headed upstairs, Steve tossing out possibilities of what to do for dinner. Bucky wasn't really listening.

"So," Steve asked as they walked into the apartment. "Your first official Avengers mission went pretty well. What'd you think?"

"It was fine," Bucky snapped, slamming the door behind him and making Steve jump. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Steve's eyebrows furrowed together. "What?" he asked, utterly confused.

Bucky dropped his go bag by the door and crossed his arms. "The plane, Steve."

"What happened on the plane?"

"You jumped out of the plane," Bucky growled. "Without a parachute," he added.

"Yeah," Steve said slowly, still clearly not understanding what the problem was. He opened his mouth and Bucky cut him off.

"If you say that's just what you do, I'm going to punch you."

Steve shut his mouth. "Okay," he said after a minute. "Clearly this bothers you, but, I'm sorry, I still feel like I'm missing something here. Talk to me. What's going on?"

Bucky narrowed his eyes, but he knew Steve wasn't trying to be condescending, so he let it be. "What's going on is that you jumped out of a plane without a parachute. Nat and Barton informed me that this is something you do all the time." Steve nodded and Bucky growled. "What the hell is wrong with you? I mean, I know you've got the super-juice and everything, but come on, Steve, even you have limits!"

"You're upset because it's dangerous?" Steve guessed. Bucky flung out his arms in a 'ya think?' gesture. Steve smiled reassuringly. "Bucky, I'm okay."

"That's not the point, Steve," he snapped.

"Then what is?" Steve asked.

In the year since he'd come home, Bucky had gotten a lot better at expressing himself verbally, but he still took a minute now to figure out exactly how he wanted to say this. "Look. I know that in combat, there are risks you're going to have to take to get things done. I get that. But there is a difference between risks taken out of necessity, and risks that are just plain stupid. There is no logical reason for you to fling yourself out of the Quinjet without any sort of backup. I know physically you can handle it, but, Steve," he sighed. "All it takes is one really strong gust of wind, or one wrong landing, or one delayed reaction from Sam or Stark or Thor, and…" He drew in a deep breath and shook his head.

"I guess what I'm trying to figure out is," Bucky went on. "Is why is this even a thing?" Steve did stupid, physically risky stuff all the time, even back when he was tiny. Bucky was used to that. But this was on a whole different scale. "I mean, I remember you jumping out of planes back in the War, but you always had a parachute. You never…" He shook his head, then shrugged with a self-deprecating smile. "It's my job to worry about you, Stevie. Where did all this come from? What happened to you while I was gone that makes you think this is okay?"

Steve had been listening intently as Bucky spoke, not blowing off his concern or making excuses, which he appreciated. His face fell at the last question, and Bucky hadn't wanted to make him feel bad, but something flashed across his eyes that told Bucky he knew the answer to the question. He may not have known it before this moment, but it had hit him and he didn't look like he was sure what to do with it.

"I don't know," Steve said. "I mean, I…" He scratched the back of his head, clearly looking for a way out of this.

"Steve."

Steve sighed. "I never put it together before. Not until you asked. I just kind of started doing it…" He looked up at Bucky uncertainly. "What if I just promise not to do it anymore?"

"Well, yeah, obviously you're not going to do it anymore," Bucky agreed. "But that doesn't get you out of answering the question."

"I don't—"

"You're going to answer the question."

Steve grimaced. "You're not gonna like it."

That did not make Bucky want to know the answer any less. "I kind of figured that," he replied.

Steve sighed and crossed his arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter. His next remarks were addressed to his feet. "You're right," he said quietly. "I never did it before. I don't know how well you remember, but, back during our missions for Phillips, I mean, I know it was like a year and a half, but I was still kind of trying to get a handle on the whole new body thing."

Bucky nodded. He remembered. Over the course of their missions, Steve would occasionally be surprised at some new thing he'd discovered he could do. And, thinking back to how he fought then and watching him fight now, he'd had all the power back in the day, but not a lot of style. It had worked, and it had worked well, but now he was able to channel that power more efficiently. Was Steve trying to tell him he didn't jump out of planes back then just because it took him a while to figure out that he could?

Steve sighed again. "Yeah, so, uh, it was my first mission after the Battle of New York. Long story short, I was at the top of a building, the floor gave out, and I went all the way down. A _long_ way down. Obviously, I survived. And I, well, I got a feeling for how far I could fall." He drew in a deep breath and didn't say anything for a long minute. His voice was shaking a little when it came back. "I should've gone after you when you fell off the train," he whispered.

It took Bucky a second to make sure he'd heard what he thought he just heard, then his mouth dropped open.

"If I had just jumped as soon as you fell," Steve continued softly. "I could've caught you and flung you back up on the train. I would've been alright. I mean, I would've broken a lot of bones and stuff, but…" He waved a hand as if to say that was inconsequential. "I probably would've made it. I could've saved you," he finished sadly.

Steve had been right, Bucky did not like the answer to the question at _all_ , but the anger that roared to life in his chest faded away at the utter dejection in Steve's voice. He crossed the space between them and wrapped his arms around his friend. "You did save me, Stevie," he said softly.

Steve stiffened at Bucky's touch and pushed him away, stepping away into the living room. "No, I didn't," he argued. "Not in time. Not before Hydra…" He swallowed hard and finally looked up at Bucky, shame swimming in his sad blue eyes. "Everything that happened to you, it happened because of me. Because I didn't…" He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, a single tear escaping from the corner of one eye. "I'm so sorry, Bucky," he said in a broken whisper.

Bucky crossed to him and hugged him again, and this time Steve let him, bringing up his arms and latching his hands to the back of Bucky's combat vest like it was all he had to hold on to. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.

"You listen to me," Bucky said, gently but firmly. "Everything that happened to me, it happened because of Hydra. Not because of you. It is nobody's fault—especially not yours—that I was too far away for you to reach." He hugged Steve a little tighter, feeling the sudden sting of tears behind his own eyes. "Have you really been holding on to this for this long?" he asked, his voice tight. He knew that Steve felt guilty about the train—he'd been sick a while back, and his fevered ramblings had told Bucky as much, and they'd talked about it some—but he had no idea it went this deep. "Not one time in seventy years did it ever even occur to me to blame you for what happened to me. Not when I was falling. Not when Zola had me strapped to that table. Not when that chair was burning everything out of my head. Not when I tried to come back and realized I had no idea how to be a human being anymore. Not once."

Bucky pulled out of the hug and grabbed the sides of Steve's face, forcing him to look at him. "It was _never_ your fault, Stevie. Never." Steve looked like he wanted to believe him. He wasn't letting himself, though.

"Look," Bucky said. This whole thing may have caught him by surprise, but now that he was on track, he knew where Steve's head was at and where he was going. He was ninety-nine years old, and he'd been able to read Steve like a book for ninety-three of them. "I joined the Howling Commandos and followed you because _I wanted to_. You asked, but you didn't make me." He knew Steve's guilt was wheeling all the way back to 1943, worried that he pressured Bucky into joining the team that ultimately led to the mission and the accident. "I. Chose. That."

"Then I chose to go on that mission," Bucky continued. "I volunteered to be one of the guys on the train instead of one of the guys hanging back on the cliff."

"You did that so you could watch my back," Steve pointed out.

"Yes, I did," Bucky agreed. "Because I wanted to." He knew Steve was still trying to figure out how he could pin this on himself. "Just like I wanted to cover you when you went down." He tightened his grip a little on Steve's face. "And if you say I wouldn't've had to cover you if you hadn't gone down in the first place, I'm gonna break your nose." Steve smiled a very little bit at that but also looked like he wanted to argue, so Bucky kept going. "People go down in combat, Steve. That's what happens. Was it my fault you had to cover me, like, three minutes earlier in the other car?"

"No," Steve said automatically.

"So that means it can't be your fault I had to cover you for a minute." Bucky smiled internally as he watched Steve try to find an argument to that and fail.

"So, nothing you did led me to that point," Bucky said. "And then—I know my memory's spotty, so, correct me if I'm wrong—it was the Hydra guy who shot at me and knocked me outside, yes?" Steve scowled at him and Bucky smirked. "I don't remember you being the one knocking me off the train."

"Bucky—"

"Then the bar tore and I fell," Bucky cut over him. "And I'm pretty sure that's on the laws of physics, and not even you can control those, man. Everything that happened after that was all on Hydra, and would you look at that? Turns out none of it was your fault after all. How about that?"

"This isn't a joke, Bucky," Steve growled, reaching up and swatting his hands away.

"I know," Bucky replied. "I'm not joking. It wasn't. Your. Fault."

"But I could've—" Steve pressed.

"Yeah, maybe you could've," Bucky huffed. He'd survived the fall with a partial, defective version of the super-serum in his blood, so, yeah, Steve probably would've been alive when he hit the ground. But Bucky had survived on a fluke. Yeah, super-serum, but catching and losing his arm had slowed his fall, and if Hydra hadn't come across him right away and frozen him, taking time to treat the damaged organs, massive blood loss, and the breaking of every single bone in his body, Bucky might have hit the ground alive but he wouldn't've stayed that way very long. Steve had a higher healing factor than Bucky had then (and had now), but there were still too many variables. "But maybe you couldn't. There's no way to know, Stevie, and we never will." He sighed. "You can't keep beating yourself up for something that _might_ have happened seventy years ago."

Steve didn't say anything, although something in his eyes said, 'Just watch me,' and Bucky swallowed down the urge to laugh and the urge to slap him.

"Listen," Bucky sighed. "What happened to me was awful, but it was just an accident that Hydra took advantage of. You didn't make it happen, and it wasn't some big scheme of theirs that you failed to see. You did everything you could. I don't blame you. I didn't blame you. I'll never blame you. But if you wanna keep blaming yourself for it, go ahead," he said, waving an arm. "I mean, that would be pretty stupid, but…" He shrugged. "You do do stupid stuff sometimes," he finished, lightly, so Steve would know he was teasing.

Steve shook his head, and Bucky could see him trying not to smile. "You usually hit me when you think I've done something stupid," he pointed out.

Bucky stretched out his flesh hand and smacked him across the back of the head. "That help?"

Steve scowled. "That wasn't an invitation."

"You set yourself up for that one," Bucky pointed out.

"Yeah, alright."

"So, which way are we gonna go on this thing?" Bucky asked. "I can hit you again if it'll help," he offered when Steve hesitated.

Steve smiled briefly, then sobered. "I know you're right," he sighed. He waved a hand at his head. "Somewhere in here, I…You're right. I just…" He sighed again. "I'll work on it," he promised, and in that moment, he was ten years old again, explaining some wild new idea and waiting for Bucky's approval.

Bucky smiled and nodded. "Good." That was all he was looking for right now. Warranted or not, you didn't let go of seventy years' worth of guilt all at once.

A smile tugged up one corner of Steve's mouth. "Are you gonna hit me again if I say I'm sorry?"

Bucky arched an eyebrow. "Depends what you're saying sorry for." Working on not feeling guilty about the train did not include continuing to apologize for it.

"For being an idiot."

"You'll have to be more specific."

Steve narrowed his eyes. "For hanging on to this for this long and for jumping out of planes without a parachute."

Bucky grinned. "Alright. _That_ apology, I'll accept." Steve smiled and looked like he wanted to say something else but couldn't figure out how, so Bucky just hugged him instead and he didn't have to say anything at all.

* * *


	19. A Box Full Of Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Alright, the last one was kind of angsty, so here's a cute and fluffy one. This one is early days for Bucky and Steve, and takes place in the middle of the 'Breaking the Habit' chapter. It mentioned that the boys spent an afternoon going through old photos, so, here we go. A trip down memory lane. (Also, apologies if you come away from this chapter with the 'Star-Spangled Man' song stuck in your head. Except, not really, because it's stuck in my head from writing this, so I'm going to share.)

* * *

Steve was hanging up his clean laundry when something on the shelf in the back of the closet caught his eye. It was a plastic box about the size of a shoe box, bright blue with shiny little star-shaped stickers all over it. Nat had given it to him, and had insisted that the stickers made it more fitting for Captain America. Because he appreciated the gesture, and because he didn't want to make her mad, he hadn't taken them off.

He pulled the box out and opened the lid. He wasn't sure how long he'd been working with Nat when he'd mentioned that he didn't have anything left from his life before he went into the ice aside from his shield and the compass with Peggy's picture in it. A week later, she'd presented him with the box. It was filled with photographs—lots of reprints of images from the Smithsonian's collection, but some originals too. Steve had been expecting mostly pictures from during the war, but was surprised to find photos from his childhood and the years after school. Nat explained that she had looked up Rebecca Barnes, Bucky's little sister, who had held on to some of his and Bucky's things after they were both presumed dead. (Rebecca was gone herself now—just a few months before Bucky had resurfaced in D.C.) Steve had been incredibly touched that she found all of that for him, and Nat had just smiled and said that if she could still have a few childhood mementos after growing up in the Red Room, then he certainly should have something.

Steve had looked through all of it before, but she'd given it to him at least a year before they'd even known Bucky was alive. He ran a finger thoughtfully along the rim of the box. Bucky had been home for nearly three weeks now. His memory still seemed like there were more holes than solid pieces, but he was trying really hard, and he was starting to hold on to some things. Steve looked up, out in the direction of the living room where Bucky was folding the rest of the laundry. He bit his lip thoughtfully and looked back down at the box. Bucky was in a good mood today. This could be a good idea.

"Hey, Buck?" he called, moving out into the living room.

"Yeah?" Bucky replied. He was tossing rolled-up pairs of socks into the basket.

"I found some, uh…some stuff from the old days," Steve said, holding up the box. "I thought maybe we could look through it, see if it helps you remember anything."

Bucky looked at him pensively. Steve understood why he might be skeptical—attempts to jog his memory didn't always work they way they thought it would. "Okay," he said at last, sounding kind of unsure.

"If you're not up for it, we can do it later," Steve added, not wanting to pressure him. He was getting better at saying 'no' to things, but it still was an effort.

"No," Bucky said, shaking his head. "I want to. I don't know how much I'll remember, but I think we should try."

Steve smiled. "Okay."

Bucky moved the folded laundry off the couch and the coffee table and back into the basket. He eyed Steve's box skeptically. "Where'd you get stuff from back then?" he wondered. "You…you went in the ice in 1945 too. Right?"

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "I didn't have any of this, but Nat dug it up for me." He'd been going to explain more, but Bucky nodded. Nat's abilities rarely surprised Bucky.

"So, what is it?" he asked.

"Pictures, mostly," Steve said. He pulled out a stack. The one on top was one of him and Bucky during the war, a still from that video that they ran on a loop in the museum. They were both laughing. Bucky started to reach for it, then pulled his hand back quickly, waiting for permission. "Go ahead," Steve said, wishing he didn't have to. Bucky picked it up carefully, and Steve set the stack down on the table.

Bucky stared at it for several minutes. "You look the same," he said at last. Then quietly, so quietly that Steve almost missed it, he added, "I don't."

Steve wasn't sure what to do with that, and started thinking maybe this had been a bad idea after all.

Bucky was still looking at the picture, and he wasn't…he wasn't smiling, but something in his face was softening. "Jim was telling a joke," Bucky said softly.

"What?" Steve asked, surprised.

Bucky looked up. "That…That was his name, right? Jim?"

"Yeah," Steve said, smiling in amazement. "Yeah, it was."

A relieved smile tugged up one corner of Bucky's mouth. He looked back down at the picture. "Jim was funny," he said, almost to himself.

Steve's smile widened. Jim _was_ funny. He didn't remember what the joke had been, but he remembered that it annoyed the reporter who was trying to get them to be serious.

The next picture in the stack was one of the Howling Commandos. Jim was the only one Bucky remembered, and though Steve named the rest of them, it didn't look like it was ringing any bells. Bucky didn't look particularly bothered by that, though. In fact, he was looking at the picture like it was a puzzle piece he'd been looking for.

"What?" Steve wondered.

Bucky tapped the picture. "I don't remember their names. Actually, I, I've already forgotten that one, even though I know you just told me," he said, pointing to Dugan. "But I know these faces. I've seen these faces. In here," he added, tapping the side of his head. "There's a lot of…" He trailed off, biting his lip as he searched for words. "I've seen them a lot," he said, finally. "It's good to know that they're good faces."

There were a couple more of the Howling Commandos, then there was one of Steve by himself. A wide grin split Bucky's face, one of the few full, real smiles Steve had seen since he'd come back. "Look at you!" he exclaimed. "You're so little!"

"Yeah," Steve agreed, blushing a little even as he smiled.

"Wow," Bucky said. He shook his head, still smiling. "I remember this little guy." He looked back up at Steve with a smirk. "He was the perfect height to lean on staggering home after a fight. Usually one that he started."

"I never started fights," Steve insisted.

"You never threw the first punch," Bucky corrected. "Not the same thing. Just a technicality to get you out of trouble with your ma."

Steve laughed, surprised. Bucky had been accusing him of that since he was eleven. He pulled more photos out of the box, fanning them across the table. "I remember her," Bucky said, sliding out a picture. "Peggy. You liked her."

"I did," Steve agreed. "I still do."

Bucky arched a curious eyebrow. "Is she still alive?"

Steve nodded. "Mm-hmm. I mean, she…" He gestured at the photo. "She looks different. But she's still alive. In D.C. I go and visit her sometimes." He was probably overdue for one, actually. "If you want," he offered. "You could come next time."

Bucky looked down at the picture again. "I remember her," he said again. "She was nice. She was like…" He rifled through the discarded stack until he found the group shot of the Howling Commandos again. "She took care of us, didn't she?"

"Yeah," Steve agreed.

"Maybe I will come," Bucky said, and it took Steve a second to connect that back to his offer.

"She'd like that," Steve told him.

"Really?"

"Yeah," Steve assured him. Not a lot of people were really comfortable around Bucky just yet, and that made him self-conscious, but who he'd been wouldn't bother Peggy. He smiled as his eye caught another picture and he slid it over in front of them. "Do you remember this?"

"Wow, you're tiny," Bucky said.

"So are you," Steve retorted. They were nine in the picture.

"That's me?" Bucky asked, clearly surprised.

"Yeah," Steve replied. He pulled over one of the wartime pictures. "See? Little version of that guy."

Bucky took the picture from Steve, holding it closer to his face and studying it carefully. "That _is_ me," he said at last. "I forget sometimes that I was ever…that I was ever young." He was quiet for a minute, then a soft smile tugged up the corners of his mouth. "We look so happy," he said, almost sounding wistful.

"We were," Steve replied. They could be that happy again one day.

"Tell me about it," Bucky said, holding the picture out to Steve. "I don't…You asked if I remembered this one, but I don't. Tell me?"

Steve nodded and smiled. "It was September 30th, 1927." The date was on the back—this was one of the originals—but he would have remembered anyway. "We were nine. That," he said, pointing to the wall behind them. "Is Yankee Stadium."

"Baseball?" Bucky guessed.

"Baseball," Steve confirmed. "We used to listen to games on the radio, and sometimes we would climb trees outside the stadium and watch. And once a year, your pop would buy tickets, for your family and me and ma, and we would all go to a game. And this year, the tickets were for September 30th."

"You said that before. Why is that day important?"

"Because September 30th, 1927, is when Babe Ruth hit his 60th home run of the season and set a new record. The whole stadium went nuts. People were cheering and crying and yelling so loud you couldn't hear the announcer. Watching him take that run around the bases…" He shook his head, smiling, remembering that almost euphoric feeling. "It was like something out of a movie."

Bucky was smiling as Steve recounted the moment. "It was cool that day—the start of fall, but it was still sunny and we got pretty warm. You kept unbuttoning your shirt and your ma kept making you button it up again. The seats were hard and wooden, and they started to cut off the circulation your legs when you sat there too long—especially for me, 'cause my feet never touched the ground from a chair, but you were short enough when you were nine, it did it to yours too. And we couldn't stand up on the chairs 'cause if you moved wrong it would fold up and you'd fall over."

"But when he hit that home run, everyone was up on their feet, stomping and clapping and cheering. There were so many pennants waving, it looked like the air was shimmering. It smelled like popcorn and beer and peanuts. On the way home we found popcorn down the back of your shirt, because the guy behind us jumped up and sent his popcorn flying everywhere." Bucky chuckled at that, scratching absently at his back like he could feel it still.

"We yelled until we were hoarse, jumping up and down and clapping until our hands were numb. I had a bruise on my shoulder for a week where you slapped me cause you were so excited," he remembered with a smile.

Bucky ran one finger across the picture, hovering over the image of the two small boys laughing triumphantly, the bigger one's arms looped around the little one's neck as they jumped up and down. "I almost…I almost remember," he said softly. "I can't see it, but I…" He closed his eyes for a moment. "I think I feel it. It feels good. Like we won. Like we're…floating."

Steve smiled. "It was a great day."

"I think it was," Bucky agreed.

"I think…" Steve said, turning back to the box. He pushed the other pictures aside, rifling around the bottom. "I thought I saw—here!" He pulled out two yellowed stubs of paper, reds and blues nearly faded into white, lettering smudgy but not quite illegible.

Bucky took one gingerly, as if he was afraid it would crumble in his hand. "Is that the ticket?"

"Yeah," Steve smiled. "We held on to these things like they were made of gold."

Bucky smiled, setting the ticket stub reverently down on top of the photo. He looked at it for a long moment before his eyes drifted back to the partially fanned-out pile of other pictures. "Who's this?" he asked, pointing to the one on top.

Steve looked down at the young man in the old military uniform. "That's my dad," he said.

Bucky's eyebrows furrowed. "I don't remember him," he said.

Steve shook his head. "You wouldn't. He died, so, you never met him."

Bucky grimaced. "Oh. Sorry," he apologized, pulling back a little warily.

"It's okay," Steve assured him. It still stung that Bucky was reacting to making a mistake like he thought Steve was going to hit him, but he also knew it was an instinct and not a conscious thought. He smiled warmly so Bucky would know he wasn't mad at him. "He died before I was born. I never met him either."

A small smile of relief flitted across Bucky's face at the absolution, and he nodded. He tilted his head, considering the picture of Steve's father. "I think I remember your ma," he said, surprising Steve. "She smiled the same way you do. And she was always fixing us up after I'd drag you home from some fight." He smiled, huffing a fond laugh. "She…She bought me pie one time," he said slowly and with a sense of wonder, like the memory was coming back as he spoke. "There was a girl I liked and she broke up with me, and your ma…Your ma bought me a piece of pie to try to cheer me up."

Steve was staring at Bucky in amazement. He'd forgotten about that completely, but it came back as Bucky talked about it. It was the summer Steve had turned thirteen, and Bucky's first serious girlfriend had dumped him. Steve's ma had taken them to lunch at the diner and bought a piece of Bucky's favorite pie for dessert.

"It was chocolate," Bucky remembered, smiling softly.

"She knew that was your favorite," Steve said.

"Do you have a picture of her?" Bucky asked.

Steve found one near the top of the pile. Bucky was right. Steve _did_ have her smile.

There were a few more from the war after that. (Steve really should put these in order sometime.) There was another group shot of the Howling Commandos, and as Steve recounted the story behind the elaborate wager and series of events that led to Dugan not having a mustache in one of them, Bucky laughed until his eyes started to water.

"Oh, look," Steve said, picking up another yellowing picture. One corner was torn off. "This was our third grade class picture." Twenty-seven children sat in rows on a long bench or on the ground in front of it, with a few of the taller ones standing in the back. Everyone was wearing their best clothes, and Steve's neck started itching just thinking about that shirt.

Bucky shook his head. "I don't think I remember any of these people."

"You know what? I don't either," Steve admitted. Bucky looked up at him, surprised, and Steve shrugged. "What? Third grade was, what, ninety years ago? That's a long time. Besides, most of these kids didn't play with me anyway."

Bucky studied the picture, frowning thoughtfully. "Why not?"

Steve shrugged again. "I was little and skinny and couldn't really run around and I was bad at baseball."

"Didn't you hit yourself in the eye with a bat one time?" Bucky asked.

"Oh, sure, you remember _that_ ," Steve grumbled.

Bucky laughed again. "Sports aren't everything, Steve."

Steve looked up at him curiously. "That what you always said when I'd get upset that no one picked me to play."

"I did?"

"Yeah." He smiled fondly. "Then you'd tell the other kids that if they weren't gonna let me play, then you weren't gonna play either, and we'd go down to the other end of the playground and climb a tree or something." He swallowed down a sudden lump of emotion. "You always stuck with me."

"To the end of the line," Bucky said with a soft smile.

Steve threw an arm over Bucky's shoulders for a quick hug. "I'm glad you're home, man," he told him, struck anew, as he often was these past few weeks, by how very true that statement was.

Bucky smiled and nodded and didn't seem to know what to say, so Steve went back to sorting through the pictures so he wouldn't have to say anything.

"Wait," Bucky said, his hand stopping Steve's shuffling of the photographs. Carefully, almost like he was afraid of it, Bucky pulled out one of a boy and a girl sitting on a set of stairs. Without looking at the date on the back, Steve guessed Bucky was eighteen in the picture. His sister would be about fourteen.

Bucky was staring at the picture with an expression that seemed to be equal parts longing and terror. "Buck, are you okay?" Steve asked carefully.

Bucky nodded slowly. "I know her," he breathed.

"That's your sister," Steve said softly. Bucky nodded again. He knew that much. "Her name was—"

"No!" Bucky cut him off. He winced, looking apologetic. "No," he said more calmly. "I can do this. I…" His eyes narrowed in concentration. "I know this. I do."

"Okay," Steve replied. Bucky did this sometimes, when he was right on the edge of remembering something. He'd told Steve once that there were some things that were right there, so close that it was like he could brush them with his fingers, but he couldn't grab on and remember them. "Take your time."

Bucky stared at the picture for a long time. "I remember her, Steve," he said softly. "She loved to dance, and she had this, this laugh like the sun breaking through the clouds. We used to read stories together, and even when she got too old for it, she still liked for me to read to her. She called me Jay," he said, his voice shaking and barely above a whisper. "She couldn't say James when she was a baby, so she always—" His voice cracked and he closed his eyes and shook his head. "Her name was the first one he took away," he said sadly.

He opened his eyes, and the tears brimming there were hurt and angry. "I was still me then. He took people away from me first, before he started taking me apart. And I can remember…" His voice shook a little bit. "I can remember being scared, because I could see her, and I could hear her, and I knew I should know who she was, but I couldn't…"

Steve was staring at Bucky, open-mouthed and horrified as he described what Zola had done to him. He hadn't realized the loss of his memories had been so slow and methodical, and that just made it worse.

"He took her away first," Bucky said. "And sometimes her face would come back, but…" He sniffed and the tears pooling in his eyes finally spilled over. "Steve, why can't I remember her name?" he asked desperately.

Steve turned on the couch and pulled Bucky in carefully so that he was crying into his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so, so sorry." It was really all he could say. After a few minutes he offered, "Do you want me to tell you her name?"

Bucky didn't raise his head, but he nodded.

"Her name was Rebecca," Steve said gently. "You called her Becky."

Bucky drew in a shuddering breath, sighed deeply, then went still. He sat up and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, then looked back down at the picture. "Becky," he said softly, and something peaceful settled into his face. He ran a finger carefully over the picture, along the lines of her dark hair. "Becky," he said again. He looked up at Steve, and his eyes were still a little moist, but he was smiling. "I've been looking for that name for so long. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Steve said, smiling at the relief on his friend's face.

"Can I," Bucky started hesitantly. "Can I keep this?" he asked timidly, as if it was too much to ask.

"Of course," Steve said, smiling widely. "It's yours."

Bucky flashed him a grateful smile and scooped the photo up reverently, setting it gently to the side of all the others.

"You want to stop for a while?" Steve asked. There was a lot more to look at, but he didn't want to overwhelm Bucky.

"No," Bucky shook his head. "Can we look at some more?"

"Sure."

He pulled out another stack, the pile in the box growing smaller. Each picture had a story and a memory attached—Bucky didn't remember most of them, and sometimes still didn't after Steve explained them, but he seemed to take comfort in the fact that even if he couldn't always remember it, he'd had a life before being the Winter Soldier. This was proof that he really was a person. It was a little weird for Steve, explaining all these things that Bucky should know, but it was good too—he didn't have to keep these memories alone anymore. They belonged to Bucky too.

There was a picture of Bucky and Steve at their high school graduation, arms around each other and smiling, although the height difference was significantly more pronounced than in the one from Yankee Stadium. There was one of Bucky in his uniform before he shipped out, and one of him and his sister holding up the ribbon they'd won at a swing dance competition. There was one of Steve and the bicycle he used to deliver papers on, and one of a very young Steve and his ma in front of their Christmas tree. He found a couple more class photos, a group shot from a church picnic where Bucky had his arm around a girl Steve thought might have been the pastor's daughter, and one of him and Bucky and a bunch of other kids from the neighborhood eating hotdogs on the sidewalk during a Fourth of July block party.

"That was your birthday, right?" Bucky asked. "The Fourth of July?"

Steve nodded. He'd been older than he cared to admit when he'd realized they didn't do the fireworks just for him, like his ma had always said they did.

"It worked out pretty well, considering your career choice," Bucky said with a smile, surprising a laugh out of Steve.

There were several more pictures and stories from the war after that, and then, to Steve's great embarrassment, some postcards and photographs of him as Captain America: The Musical Edition. He'd forgotten those were in there.

"Wait, this is…" Bucky said, picking up one of the postcards. He stared at it, confused for a moment, before pulling over one of the Howling Commando photos. "Why is your uniform different?"

"It…" Steve didn't really know where to go with that.

Bucky continued to frown at the postcard. "Are you wearing pajamas?"

"No," Steve sighed. Heat was rising in his cheeks. "It's…You remember how I got the name 'Captain America', right?"

Bucky looked thoughtful. "You know what, actually, I don't." He looked at Steve curiously. "Why _did_ we call you that?"

Steve closed his eyes and groaned. "Okay. Don't judge me for this, alright?"

"Okay," Bucky said warily.

True to his word, there was no judgement in his eyes by the time Steve finished telling the story, although there was more laughter than Steve would have liked. Although, seeing that delighted smile and that real, actual joy that made him laugh so hard he fell off the couch was worth whatever embarrassment the story may have caused Steve and infinitely more.

"Can I hear the song?" Bucky asked.

"It's been seventy-one years; what makes you think I still remember it?" Steve asked. Bucky stared at him. "Besides, it was the girls who sang it, not me." Bucky blinked once, imploringly. "You've never actually heard the song," Steve protested. "It's not like it's going to jog any memories of anything…" Bucky blinked again, and no one with the reputation of being the world's deadliest assassin had any right to have puppy dog eyes like that.

"Fine," Steve groaned, and Bucky grinned excitedly. "But if Sam or Tony EVER finds out about this…"

"My lips are sealed," Bucky promised.

Steve sighed. The things he did for his friends…

* * *


	20. Ohana Means Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Lilo and Stitch always makes me cry, and I couldn't help but notice some parallels...This one's set after the grocery store chapter-Bucky's been home for a month or two. Guest appearance from Nat, just hanging out with the boys.

* * *

By this point, Bucky had met the rest of Steve's Avenger friends. They were all nice enough, but they were an awful lot to take. Especially all together. Bucky didn't really think he could handle being around them for extended periods of time just yet.

He liked Natasha, though. He even felt comfortable calling her Nat, which he felt was a good sign. She understood the sort of things that had happened to him—he didn't have all of her backstory yet, but he knew similar kinds of things had happened to her in the Red Room—and she was able to be sympathetic without making him feel like she felt sorry for him. She was easy to talk to, but she didn't get offended when he didn't want to talk. She didn't mind explaining things he didn't get. She wasn't scared of him. She mostly just treated him like a normal person, and he liked that. It made him feel like maybe he could be one.

So, yeah, Bucky liked Nat. He even felt comfortable around her enough that he didn't feel the need to shut himself in his room when she came over. (He'd done that with some of the others—Steve wasn't going on missions right now, so they dropped by sometimes to talk about stuff—and he was kind of embarrassed about it, but he couldn't help it.)

She'd been coming over a little more in the past week or two. Bucky wondered if it was because Christmas was coming up. He got the feeling she was kind of lonely, but didn't want to let on. (He was intimately familiar with that feeling. He knew what it looked like.) She would come over and make herself at home in the living room or in the kitchen, and Sam would grumble that she'd better wash all her dishes, but that was the only comment anyone made. Last week she made cookies.

Today she'd come over after lunch and dropped a backpack full of board games on the table. She and Steve and Bucky had played Scrabble until Sam got home. Bucky remembered that one. He'd played it with his sister. He'd played it with Steve a lot too. An image was settling in the back of his brain of a sick Steve propped up in bed under a blanket, scrabble board laid out across his legs and Bucky sitting at the other end. The letters bounced every time Steve coughed.

Bucky thought maybe he used to be good at this game, but he found himself having to really focus on the words he was playing. He'd accidentally laid out a Russian word earlier without realizing it.

"We're playing in English," Nat had said, as if it was a mistake anyone could have made, sliding the letters back across the board to him. Steve had looked at him worriedly, the way he always did when something like this happened, but Bucky had just swallowed down a knot in his throat and followed Nat's lead, and Steve followed Bucky's. The mix-up was kind of embarrassing, but Bucky appreciated both of their responses. It would have been easy to get annoyed with Steve's sympathetic concern, but it meant that Steve cared. No one had cared about Bucky in a long time. He was grateful for it, as he was grateful for Nat's nonchalance.

Nat and Steve had bickered over the validity of words and abbreviations, and when Sam had gotten home, they'd invited him to join.

"I've got Monopoly too," Nat offered.

"No," Bucky said. "Steve's not allowed to play Monopoly."

"Oh?" Nat said, arching a curious eyebrow.

Bucky grinned. "He cheats."

Sam laughed and Steve blushed. "I do not!"

"He steals from the bank," Bucky said. "I remember this, Stevie. In fact, I feel like I remember Peggy threatening to shoot you," he added.

"No, that was just because she was a sore loser," Steve said.

"I don't think she lost that game. We don't know who won, because you started taking money from Jim's pile and he got mad and flipped the board over."

"No one ever proved that I did that," Steve argued.

"Alright, so, not Monopoly," Nat said, sliding the game back into her bag with a smile. "Clue?"

Neither Steve or Bucky knew how to play that one, but it seemed easy enough. Although…"This is a weird way to solve a murder," Bucky pointed out. "I mean, you can just look at a dead body and know if it got shot or stabbed or strangled. Why do we have to figure out if it was a knife or a gun?"

"And there would be blood on the carpet or something," Steve added. "Or, you know, they'd say, 'Hey, there's a dead guy in the kitchen'."

"You guys are over-thinking this," Sam said, rolling the dice. "Ha, ha! Made it to the ballroom."

"That's the danger of playing this with people in our line of work," Nat said. "I can't play this with Clint, it drives him nuts."

"Alright, Scarlet in the ballroom with the wrench," Sam said, moving all the little pieces into the room.

"Aw, come on," Bucky groaned. "I've been trying to get to the other end of the board for fifteen minutes. Why do you guys keep pulling me back?"

"You're a suspicious character," Steve said, sliding a card over to show Sam.

"Hey, if it does turn out to be me, and I guess that, do I still win or do I lose because I killed the guy?" Bucky wondered, taking the dice and beginning another attempt to get to the lounge.

"You'd still win," Nat replied.

Bucky did not win the game, but he didn't turn out to be the murderer either, so he felt like he came out ahead. (Sam won, and Steve turned out to be the killer.) Steve headed to his room to write some emails when they were done. Nat and Bucky picked up the game while Sam turned on the TV and found a football game. Bucky remembered football, but he didn't remember if he liked it. He still wasn't sure. Baseball had been more his thing.

After the quarter was over, Nat sighed. "Enough football. You guys want to watch a movie?" she asked.

"Okay," Bucky said. He liked watching movies. And a lot of them had come out since the last time he'd really gotten the chance to enjoy them.

"Great!" she enthused, hopping up and moving for her backpack.

"Hey, what about the game?" Sam asked, gesturing at the TV.

"This game is from 1993," she said.

"It's a classic. It's a Christmas tradition."

"So is watching movies."

She moved for the DVD player and Sam picked up the case she set on the table. " _Lilo and Stitch_? How is this a Christmas movie?"

"It's not," Nat said, sliding it into the player. "But it's a Disney movie. Christmas is a time for Disney movies."

Bucky remembered Disney movies too. He and Steve had gone with some girls on a double date to see Snow White in the theater. He remembered enjoying it, although he couldn't really remember what it was about.

"Ooh, a Disney movie?" Steve said, catching the end of the conversation as he came back into the room. "Cool!"

Nat hopped back onto the couch where she'd been sitting next to Bucky. She glanced over at him a couple of times while the previews played. "What?" he asked finally.

"Nothing," she shrugged. She looked over at him again. "Okay, maybe it's a weird question, but can I play with your hair?"

"What?" he asked again.

"No one else on the team has hair long enough for me to play with. Except Thor. Thor lets me play with his hair."

Bucky still wasn't entirely sure what she meant by 'play with his hair'. And he knew he could say no and she wouldn't be mad. "Alright," he still found himself saying a little uncertainly. She scooted across the couch a little closer, and Steve shot a quick look over from his chair, a little surprised, but he was smiling.

Nat started brushing his hair out with her fingers—he swallowed down the initial urge to flinch at hands coming at his head. Her fingers were gentle, though, carefully untangling any knots they came across, and once they could glide freely through his hair without getting caught, Bucky was glad he'd decided to let her do this, because it felt really good. He might just fall asleep.

The movie started—a cartoon about a little girl who didn't seem to quite fit in. "Your hair is amazing," Nat said, running hand over the top of it. "What kind of shampoo do you use?"

"Um," Bucky started, a little thrown off by the statement. "Something with coconut? I don't know; Steve buys it."

"Mm," she mused. "Conditioner?"

"The kind that matches the shampoo."

"Remind me to look in the bathroom before I go and see," she said. "Seriously, your hair is even softer than Thor's. Whatever you're using, I need to be using some of this." She stopped playing with his hair and leaned across to Steve's chair to run a hand through his hair.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked.

"Just checking," she replied. She returned her hands to Bucky's hair. "Definitely need to get me some of whatever you guys are using."

As the movie went on, Bucky realized when she'd said 'play' with his hair, she actually did mean 'play'. She was pulling it back and twisting it up, or plaiting little braids all through it. He was kind of impressed that she didn't seem to be looking at his hair while she did any of that, her eyes totally on the movie.

It was an interesting movie. The little girl and her sister had unknowingly adopted a blue alien instead of a dog. Other aliens were trying to catch the blue one, and there was a government guy who reminded Bucky of Nick Fury, who he'd only met the once. Steve and Sam both agreed that there was a resemblance.

They stopped the movie in the middle to order some pizza for dinner. "What does everybody want?" Steve asked.

"Anything but onions," Bucky said. He'd had enough food now to remember what he liked and didn't like. He'd never liked onions. And Steve had been allergic to them, so that had simplified things back when they'd shared an apartment before the war. He wasn't allergic to them anymore, of course, but he still hadn't quite acquired the taste. Although, he and Bucky both ate enough now that he could've put onions on his pizza if he wanted—it's not like they were sharing one.

"Meat lover's with olives!" Nat called from the couch.

"What is the matter with you?" Sam demanded. "Olives are the devil's food. Let's do pepperoni with mushrooms and green peppers."

"Blech," Nat said, making a face. "Black olives, Steve, not green ones. I'll take pepperoni, but don't you dare put any fungus on my pizza."

"Bucky, you want garlic bread?" Steve asked as Nat and Sam continued to argue about vegetables.

Bucky nodded eagerly.

"And I'm guessing Cherry Dr. Pepper for the soda?" he asked with a grin.

Bucky smiled and nodded again. He'd recently discovered the drink and it was his new favorite thing. Even more than garlic bread.

When the pizza and drinks arrived, they sat everything out at the table. Sam and Nat inspected their pizza to make sure none of the offending vegetables crossed the lines they'd been divided into. "Are there any dips for the breadsticks?" Nat asked.

Steve pointed to a pile in the middle of the table. "No ranch?" Sam asked.

"Steve's got it all," Nat said, dumping three packets of honey mustard on to her plate.

"No, I don't, Steve said, sliding the pizza box over.

"Dude, you've got, like, fifteen ranches over there!" Sam complained, leaning to look around the box.

"No, I—"

"Gimme some of that," Sam demanded, reaching across the table. Steve pulled the pile away and Bucky scooped it away from him, moving it even farther from Sam. "Not cool," Sam complained, tossing a balled-up napkin at Bucky's face and lunging for the packets, knocking over the, thankfully closed, bottle of soda.

"Boys," Nat chastised.

"Sorry," they chorused. Sam set the soda bottle back upright.

"Steve, you need to share," she added, sounding like she was talking to a three-year-old and using a tone of voice that reminded Bucky of his ma. Steve took the pile back from Bucky and slid one of the ranch packets across the table to Sam, followed shortly by two more after a pointed look from Nat.

Steve offered to wash the dishes, and Bucky and Sam cleared up the trash and took out the pizza boxes. Nat made hot chocolate. It took Bucky a little while to figure out what it was—it had been a very long time since he'd had any. Nat caught him staring at the cups and held up a bag filled with tiny marshmallows. "You want some?"

His memory was not the most reliable, but Bucky could only remember having hot chocolate with marshmallows in it once in his whole life—such a treat like that would have been a luxury when he was a kid. Some of his excitement must have shown on his face, because Nat laughed and dropped a large handful of them into one of the mugs and handed it to him.

They returned to the living room to finish the movie. Nat went back to braiding Bucky's hair, after holding her hands up to show they were free of pizza grease and marshmallow stickiness. The marshmallows on top of his hot chocolate had melted into a gooey mess, and it was one of the most delicious things Bucky could remember tasting.

"Nat, this is amazing," Sam said, drinking deeply from his own mug. "What kind is this?"

"She makes it herself," Steve said, going back to the kitchen for another cup.

"Really?" Sam asked, sounding impressed. "Can I have the recipe, or is it one of those, I'd-tell-you-but-I'd-have-to-kill-you kind of things?"

Nat laughed. "No, you can have it."

"Do you have secret recipes?" Bucky wondered.

"Birthday cake," Sam answered.

"Oh," Steve groaned, coming back to his chair. "Seriously, Buck, it's the best cake ever! She won't let anyone watch her make it. Clint tried sneaking in to the kitchen through the vents to watch and she tied him to the porch."

Bucky laughed. "Really?"

"I warned him," Nat said serenely. She patted Bucky's shoulder. "I'll make you one for your birthday."

They stopped talking as the movie approached its climax. Nat's hands had stilled in his hair, and Bucky looked over to see her watching the screen, eyes glistening as the government guy took the little girl away. He shifted a little and looped an arm around her, and she didn't look up, but she leaned in and rested her head on his shoulder.

Not much later, the little family was back together again, but the little blue guy was being arrested and loaded up to be taken away. A weight settled down onto Bucky's chest, pressing him back into the couch until he couldn't breathe while the little guy said goodbye. "Excuse me, I—" he said to Nat, pushing her off his shoulder and getting quickly to his feet.

He shut the bathroom door behind him and leaned his hands on the sink, resting his forehead on the cool glass of the mirror with a sigh. _This is my family_ , the little alien had declared. _I found it all on my own_. A dangerous, destructive killing machine on the run had been adopted by a lonely, persistent little weirdo who didn't know when to quit. Stitch and Bucky had both resisted it at first, but once they got their heads straightened out, it was all either of them wanted.

_It's little_. Stitch had the little girl and her sister. Bucky had Steve and Sam and Nat.

_And broken_. He thought about Steve, who'd only ever wanted to do the right thing, and life had taken everything from him, piece by piece. Thought about Sam, who'd been to war and lost his friend and part of himself. Thought about Nat, who'd been denied a childhood and raised to be a killer.

He thought about himself, who hardly knew how to do anything except hurt people.

_But still good_ , Stitch had asserted with a satisfied nod. _Yeah. Still good_. Steve could have mourned the friend he lost and then moved on. Sam could have thrown up his hands and declared this mess to be not his problem. Nat could have kept her distance like she'd been trained to do.

Bucky could have kept running.

But none of them did. They were weird and dysfunctional, but they were a family. And they were still good.

Bucky dashed a hand across his face, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Bucky was a broken, destructive mess, but just like Stitch, he was trying to be better. Steve refused to give up on him and refused to be scared away. Sam knew what it was like to lose someone, and Nat knew what it was like to be lost. _Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind. Or forgotten_. It meant Bucky finding the courage to ask for help. It meant Steve turning his life upside down and letting him in. It meant Sam finding ways to help him sleep. It meant Nat coaxing him to try new things. It meant movie nights, morning runs, cooking dinner, doing laundry, jokes, games, fights and apologies, nightmares and reassuring voices, pranks and stories and Scrabble tiles and murder mysteries and braids in his hair and pizzas divided into sections and ranch dressing and hot chocolate with little marshmallows.

It meant Bucky had a family again.

There was a soft knock at the door and Bucky wiped at his eyes again. "Buck?" came Steve's voice. "You okay?"

Bucky opened the door. "Yeah," he said. He still wasn't much for long speeches these days, had no idea how to convey to Steve the revelation he'd just had, so he hugged him instead. He could feel Steve startle a little bit at that—Bucky was rarely the one to initiate physical contact—but he raised his arms to hug him back and Bucky smiled.

"Yeah," he said again. "I'm great."

* * *


	21. Brother, Let Me Be Your Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, this was totally going to be a nice Christmas chapter, but the muse wasn't feeling it. She wanted to do this instead. But, you know, it's kind of like a Christmas chapter, because this is the chapter where Bucky comes home, and if that's not the perfect gift for Steve, then I don't know what is.  
> The title comes from the song 'Brother' by Needtobreathe, which is just perfect for these two.  
> (Sorry I forgot to post this yesterday!)

* * *

Steve sighed as he stepped off the bus, sliding his phone into his jacket pocket. Coulson had been looking into a reported Winter Soldier sighting in Romania for him, but it had just been confirmed as a dead end. It had been almost six months since he'd found out Bucky was still alive, and despite the combined resources of the Avengers and what remained of S.H.I.E.L.D., the search thus far had turned up exactly nothing. Nat was right. He really was a ghost.

Steve knew that Bucky was messed up. Even if he hadn't read the file Nat had gotten for him—which was disturbing and at the same time lacking in specifics—their two encounters had made it abundantly clear that Hydra had done something to his head. But equally clear was Steve's last memory before falling into the Potomac. He remembered Bucky's metal fist hesitating, dropping back. He remembered that look of fear and confusion as memory flashed across Bucky's face and he recognized Steve—not as his mission, but as Steve Rogers, his friend. He remembered a metal hand reaching through the water, pulling him back up from the muddy depths. Bucky was messed up, but Bucky was in there. Steve had been hoping he'd come back on his own. He hated to think of him out there, confused and alone and with God only knew what going on in his head.

He shivered and pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself. The fall air had a sharp bite to it, and Steve was looking forward to getting up to his nice warm apartment. Maybe a hot cup of coffee and some of that soup Sam made last night.

The wind died down as he rounded the corner, but even in the quieter air, without his super senses he would have missed the soft clink of glass on concrete as something moved behind the dumpster. He paused. "Hello?" he called. Was someone back there? Could just be an alley cat, but if it was someone homeless, nights were cold enough already. He was already thinking about where the nearest soup kitchen was and trying to remember if he'd grabbed the spare set of Sam's car keys as he stepped off the sidewalk towards the dumpster. For a moment, nothing, then the shadows moved and the outline of a ragged coat and ball cap emerged from behind the dumpster and Steve forgot how to breathe.

"Bucky?!"

Standing in front of him was James Buchanan Barnes, skinnier, scruffier and dirtier than last time he'd seen him, looking pale and scared, but completely, really, actually, physically _right there_.

"Hi, Steve," he said quietly, and Steve's heart soared and a relieved smile split his face because Bucky was alive and right there and he remembered him.

"Hey, Buck," he replied. He stepped forward and Bucky scooted back several steps, one hand raised as if to ward him off. Steve stopped. "Right. No sudden moves." He had no idea what Bucky had been through these last six months, but he supposed it wasn't unexpected that he'd be jittery. "Sorry."

Bucky looked a little surprised that Steve had apologized, but he nodded and lowered his hand.

"Do you remember me?" Steve asked.

Bucky swallowed and nodded. "Some. Enough to know that you…I know who you are."

He sounded like there'd been more he'd wanted to say, but Steve would take that for now. Steve suddenly wasn't sure where to go with this. For months, all he'd wanted was to find Bucky, but now that he had, he had no idea what to do next. Bucky said he remembered him, but he was still obviously uneasy, so Steve smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. "I've been looking for you. You're a hard man to find."

A tiny, humorless smile quirked up one side of Bucky's mouth. "I'm supposed to be."

Steve nodded. "Where have you been?"

"Around," Bucky said evasively. "Mostly here."

"Here?" Steve asked, surprised. "By the dumpster behind my apartment?" Had he really been this close all this time?

"Here in New York," Bucky clarified. "It said in the museum that I used to live here, so I came to look around. And I knew you were here, so…" He shrugged. "I moved around a lot, though. Stayed out of the way."

After months of searching, it made Steve a little sick that Bucky had been practically in his backyard this whole time, but he also knew that if Bucky didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be, and something clicked in his head. "You wanted me to hear you just now, didn't you?" Bucky said nothing but inclined his head a little, and Steve knew he was right. "Were you…Were you waiting for me?" he asked, suddenly feeling hopeful. Maybe Bucky was ready to come home.

Bucky did that little head thing again. He drew in a deep breath, clearly drawing in the courage for whatever he was going to say next. "I need to ask you something."

"Okay," Steve said. Bucky didn't say anything for a minute, looking like he wasn't sure where he was going. It occurred to Steve to wonder how long it had been since Bucky had a conversation with someone. He hadn't talked this much in April, and from what Steve had read about what Hydra used him for, he wouldn't have had much need to talk to them. No wonder he was having trouble getting words out.

"You said…" Bucky said at last. "You said you—you said you were my friend." He swallowed hard, and Steve's heart broke at the fear swimming in his steel blue eyes. "Did you mean that?" he asked softly.

"Yes," Steve said without hesitating. "Yes, I did."

Bucky didn't look as relieved at that as Steve would have hoped, but he nodded, looking down at his feet and absorbing Steve's answer. "Even after…" He looked back up. "Do you still mean it?"

"Absolutely." Steve smiled encouragingly. "To the end of the line."

Bucky stared at him for a moment, trying to decide if he believed him, then he nodded.

"That's why I've been looking for you," Steve added, when Bucky didn't seem sure what to say.

Bucky's eyebrows drew together warily. "Not because…" He caught himself and stopped talking, looking away.

"Not because of what?" Steve wondered.

"Because of what I did," Bucky replied quickly, then grimaced. It was painfully obvious that he hadn't wanted to answer the question, but he hadn't been able to stop himself. A nauseous little twist in Steve's gut wondered what happened to Bucky when Hydra asked him questions and he didn't answer. Bucky sighed. "Back in April," he finished.

Steve thought for a moment. Bucky had done a lot back in April, but he was probably referring to the last part. "You mean on the helicarrier?" Bucky nodded. "I…" Steve trailed off as he realized what Bucky meant, and his face fell. "Buck, I haven't been hunting you down to get back at you for that."

Bucky looked up at him, skeptical, but a little bit hopeful. "Really?"

"Really," Steve insisted. Bucky clearly hadn't expected that answer and he looked down, chewing on his bottom lip. "What did you really want to ask me?" he asked. They'd gotten sidetracked from whatever Bucky's earlier question had been building up to. The fact that Bucky was here at all was a good sign, and Steve hoped it was leading to him deciding to stay.

Bucky nodded, confirming that there had been more to the question, and drew in a deep breath, pulling together whatever he was going to say next. "If you're not mad," he began slowly, looking at Steve like he was waiting for him to contradict the statement. "Would you…" He swallowed hard and looked at the sky, as if the words he wanted were up there somewhere. He looked back at Steve. "You said you were my friend, and I…I think I need that. I need…There's a lot I don't remember, but I remember you, and I think you could help me find it. I remember we…" One more deep sigh. "Will you help me?"

Warmth surged through Steve's chest. "Of course, Bucky. Of course, I will." He stepped forward, and this time, Bucky let him, though he stopped a few feet away and did not touch him. "That's all I've been wanting to do."

Bucky looked surprised at that. "You _wanted_ to help me?"

"More than anything."

"Even though I tried to kill you?" he asked uncertainly. Steve nodded. Bucky didn't look like he knew what to do with that. "Thank you," he said at last, like he wasn't quite sure if that was right.

"You're welcome," Steve replied. Slowly, so that Bucky could see it, he extended a hand and rested it on his shoulder. "You want to come inside? It's awfully cold out here."

Bucky inhaled deeply, steeling himself, then nodded slowly. "Okay."

Steve moved and Bucky followed, a couple of steps behind and to the side. He'd been working towards this moment since April, and now it was happening, and it wasn't how he'd pictured it at all. He ached to grab Bucky, to hug him and welcome him home and laugh and celebrate that they'd found each other again. But Bucky had the tense, nervous look of a cornered animal, and Steve swallowed down his enthusiasm and his expectations—this wasn't going how he'd hoped, but it was still happening, and if he did something to scare Bucky away, he might never find him again. He needed to be calm and reassuring—Bucky needed to feel safe. Steve could do that. They could figure the rest out later.

Upstairs, Bucky followed Steve hesitantly into the apartment, like he wasn't sure he was supposed to be there. "Is everything okay?" Steve asked.

"No, I—I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

Bucky nodded.

"Okay. If there's something wrong, though, you can let me know, alright? Or, if you have questions or anything," he added. He didn't think Bucky got to ask questions very much.

Bucky nodded again.

"Okay," Steve said. "So, uh, let me show you around. This right here is the kitchen. Anything in the fridge, you're welcome to, unless it has Sam's name on it. He's kind of possessive of his leftovers." He smiled, but didn't get one in return. "Living room over here," he moved on. Not much to say about that. "There's a little laundry room/pantry thing around the corner there, and then this hallway goes back to the bedrooms. The bathroom is there at the end, and that's Sam's room next to it."

"Um," Bucky started, like he was worried he shouldn't be interrupting.

"Yeah?" Steve asked.

Bucky's brow furrowed and he inhaled, and it looked like he was reminding himself that Steve had told him it was okay to ask questions. "Um, sorry, but who…who is Sam? Am I…Am I supposed to know him?"

Steve paused. "Oh. Um, you know what, no, actually." Sam had been such a great help in his searching for Bucky that he'd forgotten that they'd only ever met in combat. "Sorry, I forgot. You've…crossed paths, but I don't think you've ever talked to him." He wondered if Bucky would remember him when he saw him. "He's a friend of mine. He lives here too," he finished, hoping that if he _did_ remember, mentioning that he was a friend would keep things from getting uncomfortable.

"Okay," Bucky nodded. "Thank you."

The thanks for the explanation felt oddly formal, but Steve didn't comment and just nodded and smiled back. "Um, oh, yeah, this one's my room," he said, pushing the door open to continue the tour. "You're welcome to come in any time, you know, if you need me for anything. And this one…" He pushed open the door across the hall from his. "Is your room."

The room was sparsely furnished, but ready to be moved in to. There was a bed with clean sheets and lots of pillows—Bucky had always liked having a pile of pillows on his bed, and had complained about the lack of them more than anything else in the Army. There was a nightstand with a little lamp, a dresser and an empty desk. Steve hadn't been sure what sort of things Bucky would have or would need when they found him, so he'd wanted the room to be comfortable, but empty enough that he could make it his own.

Bucky did not follow Steve into the room, but stood in the doorway with an unreadable expression on his face. He opened and closed his mouth several times, then swallowed hard. "My room?" he whispered.

"Yeah," Steve replied. "Is that okay?" He wasn't sure what that look on Bucky's face meant.

Bucky took one step into the room. "You…" He looked around. "You had a place for me?"

Steve smiled warmly, even as his heart ached at what he now recognized as bewildered wonder at the simple gesture. "Yeah, Buck. It's been ready for you since we moved in. I was gonna keep looking for you until I found you, and I wanted you to have somewhere to stay when I did."

Bucky swallowed again and for a moment, emotion seemed to twitch his mouth up in one corner. He moved further into the room, his eyes soaking in every inch. "You really did this for me?" he asked softly.

Steve nodded, not sure what to say that wouldn't cheapen the moment.

Bucky stopped by the bed, staring at it intently and resting tentative fingertips on the mattress. "You got me a bed," he said, in a shaking voice so quiet Steve barely caught it.

There was so much in that little sentence that made Steve's heart break for his friend, and he couldn't stop himself from reaching a hand over onto Bucky's shoulder. Bucky tensed under his grip, but didn't move away. "Yeah, Buck," he told him. Not wanting to press his luck, he squeezed his shoulder, then let go. "I did." He waited until Bucky looked up from the bed and met his gaze. "Welcome home," he said warmly.

Bucky looked into his eyes for a long minute, then nodded, and the smallest, most beautiful smile Steve had ever seen tugged up one corner of his mouth. "Thank you," he said quietly, and this time it didn't sound formal or awkward at all.

Bucky looked back down at the bed, thoughtfully smoothing out a wrinkle in the blanket. The silence was broken by the soft opening and shutting of the front door, and all the tension that had started to drain out of Bucky's frame was back in an instant, his eyes wide and alert as he moved a hand under his jacket to where Steve assumed there was some sort of weapon.

"It's okay," he told him, raising one of his hands. "That's just Sam coming home."

"Steve? You here, man?" Sam called from the kitchen right on cue.

"Yeah," Steve called back. He looked back at Bucky, who looked no less on edge. "You want to come out and meet him? It's okay if you don't. You can stay in here, and I'll just let him know you're here."

Bucky tilted his head a little to the side and considered Steve, inhaling deeply as his eyebrows furrowed just as he had done when Steve had asked him if he wanted to come inside. Steve felt like there was something significant there he was missing, but he couldn't quite pinpoint it.

"No, I…" Bucky nodded to himself. "I can come."

"Okay," Steve said, smiling warmly and resisting the urge to clap him on the shoulder again. He nodded towards the hallway and Bucky followed behind him. "Hey, Sam," he greeted, stepping into the kitchen. "We've got company."

"Oh, okay," Sam said, his back to Steve as he put a gallon of milk in the fridge. "If they're staying for supper, we may have to order in, 'cause I—" His voice died in his throat as he turned around and his eyes landed on Bucky. "Oh," he said quietly. "Wow." The two of them stared at each other for an uncomfortably long minute, then Sam smiled and extended a hand and said, "Hey, man. Good to see you again. I don't know if you remember, but I'm Sam."

Bucky extended his hand almost mechanically, more like it was a reflex than because he wanted to, and shook Sam's. "Hi, Sam," he said awkwardly.

They let go and the silence got uncomfortable very quickly. "So, uh, I'll work on getting some dinner," Sam said at last. "I don't think we have enough groceries for _two_ super soldiers, so, uh…You like Chinese food?"

"I don't know," Bucky replied.

"Oh. Right. Well, I guess we can give it a try. That work for you, Steve?"

"Chinese sounds great," Steve told him. "Thanks." He turned to Bucky. "We can go and get you settled in while he's working on that." They started moving towards Bucky's room. "Do you, um, do have any stuff you want to unpack?" There was a small backpack on his back that he hadn't taken off yet, but Steve wasn't sure if he'd left more stuff down in the alley or wherever he'd been staying.

Bucky slipped his backpack off into his hand. "Where do you want me to put it?"

"It's your room," Steve said. "You can put it wherever you want to. The closet's empty, and there's lots of drawers in the dresser and the desk, but you can throw it on the floor if that's what you want to do with it."

Bucky had that look on his face again as he stared down at his backpack. After a long minute, he looked back up at Steve with an expression of poorly-concealed helplessness and Steve realized with a pang that no one had offered him the chance to make a choice in sixty-nine years, and Steve seemed to have given him too many options. "Can you please tell me where it should go?" he asked in a very small voice.

"Okay," Steve said with a sad smile. "Let's see what you've got."

Bucky shook the contents of the backpack onto the bed. Steve was surprised at how little was in there—he had several clips of ammunition, a couple of knives and what looked like a grenade, a tightly rolled bundle of black leather that it took Steve a moment to recognize as the combat vest and pants he'd been wearing back in April, a few protein bars, a shoelace, a pair of socks, and three dog-eared spiral-bound notebooks with pens clipped into the coils.

"Okay," Steve said again, biting back a worried, 'Is this all you have?'. He didn't know how that would be taken. "Let's start with these." He picked up the clips of ammo. "I'm guessing these go to a gun that's…on you, somewhere." Bucky nodded timidly, like he was waiting for a negative reaction. "Alright." He would really rather Bucky not be armed in the apartment, but it was probably going to take him a little while to feel safe. He'd just—well, he'd let Sam know, and they'd just be aware of it and maybe bring it up in a few days after he was more settled.

"What if we put some of it in the drawer in the nightstand and some of it in the desk? That way, it's in different parts of the room in case you need it."

"Okay," Bucky agreed, relaxing a little when Steve didn't get mad about the gun.

"And maybe split the knives that way too?" Steve suggested. "Even spread?"

Bucky nodded, and they spent a few minutes putting the weapons in drawers. Bucky tucked the grenade in the dresser.

Steve unrolled the combat outfit, feeling a little chill as he looked down at it. It felt kind of intimidating just laying flat in his hands, and up close, he could see the way the straps and harnesses fastened and how they would have locked Bucky in. "Do you want to keep this?" he asked carefully.

Bucky's mouth opened soundlessly, then closed again. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I tried…I couldn't throw it away."

"Alright," Steve said. He thought about offering to do it for him, but that felt like a step Bucky needed to take himself. "How about I put it in the closet?" He put it on a hanger and slid it back into the corner. "It's here in the back, out of the way, so you don't have to see it. You can decide what you want to do with it later."

The protein bars and the single shoelace went into the top drawer of the desk, the lone pair of socks into the dresser, and the three notebooks and pens were laid out on top of the desk. "Now," Steve told him. "If you decide you don't like where any of this is, you can move it. Okay?" He waited for Bucky to nod. "Later on, we'll see about getting you some clothes and stuff, but for now, you can borrow some of mine."

"Really?" Bucky asked curiously.

"Sure. It may be a little big, but that's alright. Let me go grab some of it for you." He crossed the hall to his room, quickly grabbing up what he thought he would need. He paused in the hallway, watching as Bucky picked up one of the notebooks and moved it from the desk to the nightstand, placing it reverently by the lamp. Steve wondered what was in it. He cleared his throat to announce his presence, noting the way Bucky jumped a little, and came back into the room.

"Here you go. I brought a few different things so you can decide what feels more comfortable."

"Thank you," Bucky said, looking at the pile of clothes like he was trying to figure it out.

"If you want," Steve offered. "I can wash what you've got on there so it'll be clean for you." Bucky was wearing what looked like his combat boots, a pair of worn, dirty jeans that had seen better days, a couple of layers of long-sleeved shirts in varying degrees of rattiness, and a coat that probably used to be a lighter shade of gray. All of it was discolored and stained and dirty and didn't smell very good.

Bucky considered the offer, then nodded. "Okay." He shrugged out of the coat and reached for the buckle of his belt.

"Whoa!" Steve said. "I meant, I thought you might want to take a shower, and _then_ you could change and we could get everything washed." He really didn't want to think about why Bucky didn't seem to have a problem with stripping down in front of him like that.

"Oh," Bucky grimaced. He winced and stepped back a couple of paces. "I'm sorry. I didn't understand, I'm sorry," he stammered as he backed away.

"No, no, hey, it's okay," Steve hurried to assure him. "It's alright, I'm not mad. It, you know what? It was me; I should have been more clear. It's fine. Would you like to take a shower?" he finished.

Bucky took longer to think about that one. "Okay," he said at last. He followed Steve to the bathroom, and Steve pointed out the clean towels and showed him where the shampoo and soap and stuff was. "Take as long as you'd like," he said. "We've got plenty of hot water," he finished with a smile. Bucky nodded, seemingly in thought, but did not smile back.

Steve let out a long sigh as he closed the bathroom door. Man, this was turning out to be tougher than he'd thought. He needed to talk to Sam, figure out how exactly to talk to a POW with Bucky's level of trauma. He really should have done that as part of his prep work before Bucky had gotten here, he just…he guessed he'd been hoping it would be easy. That Bucky would remember and they would just be okay again. But it looked like it was going to take some more time to get there, so Steve was going to make sure he was doing this right. Bucky had felt safe enough to come back—Steve didn't want to do the wrong thing and make him feel like he'd made the wrong decision. Bucky was going to get better and Steve was going to help him. However long it took.

"Hey, Sam," Steve greeted, moving back into the kitchen. Sam looked up from his laptop and arched a questioning eyebrow. "Bucky's getting a shower," he added.

"Okay." Sam closed the laptop and stood up. "What the hell, dude, you _found_ him?! When did this happen? Also, just FYI, a little heads up would have been nice."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry. It was all just…I didn't actually find him, he found me. And we got up here maybe fifteen minutes before you got home."

"Oh. What do you mean he found you? Are you telling me that he's been trying to find you this whole time we were trying to find him?"

"No. Apparently, he's been here in New York almost the whole time."

"What?!"

"I know," Steve sighed. He recounted for Sam what had happened since he'd seen Bucky in the alley. "Sam," he sighed. "I don't…I don't know what to do here, man. This is all just…"

"Not how you pictured it?" Sam finished.

"Yeah."

"What were you picturing?" Sam asked curiously.

Steve shrugged. "I guess I just thought…"

"You thought you'd be like you used to be?" Sam guessed.

"Well, not all at once," Steve said defensively. "I know he's…He needs a lot of help, and that doesn't just go away, I know that, I just…Him and me, I thought we'd be alright. But, Sam, it's like he's scared of me."

Sam nodded. "I know that's rough, man, and I'm sorry. But think about where he's coming from. Punishment for dissent and minor infractions and crap is a big part of brainwashing and mental conditioning, and he's coming off of sixty-nine years of Hydra digging around in his head. No matter how well he remembers you, something buried that deep is gonna take a while to shake. I know it's not easy, but try not to take it personally."

"Sam, I…" Steve sighed, thinking back to a few minutes ago and the way Bucky reacted to the misunderstanding about the shower. "It's like he thinks I'm gonna hurt him if he gets the tiniest thing wrong. How…" He sighed and shook his head. If Bucky was really in there, how could he think that? It hurt, and he felt selfish being hurt by it when Bucky was the one who needed the help, but he couldn't help it.

Sam put a sympathetic hand to his shoulder. "I'm sorry, man. I really am. But, you know what? He said he remembers you, right?"

Steve nodded. How much he remembered him seemed to be up in the air, but…

"So, he was afraid you would want revenge for him almost killing you in April, he's afraid of getting hurt for messing up, but, dude, he still came back all on his own. He's scared, but what he remembers about you was enough to push him past that. He trusts you."

Hope fluttered in Steve's chest at the thought.

"It's still not gonna be easy," Sam cautioned. "Everything he thought he knew fell apart in April, and he's been on the run since then. It's gonna take a while for things to settle, but he trusts you. That's why he came back. That's what's gonna get you guys through this."

Steve nodded, encouraged. "You're right." He smiled. "Thanks, man." He eyed Sam thoughtfully. "Are you okay with this? I know we've been trying to find him, but…"

"Actually having the man who was actively trying to kill me ten feet down the hall?" He smiled. "Yeah, it's a lot, but that was the deal. I may be sleeping a little lighter for the next few nights, but we'll all figure this thing out."

Warm surged through Steve's chest at Sam's use of the word 'we'. Considering that Sam only knew Bucky as the guy who tried to kill him several times, he had every excuse to just bow out and declare the whole thing Steve's problem. "Yeah. Hey, you know, I can't tell you how much it's meant to me, you having my back on this."

Sam smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Sure thing." He looked down at his watch. "Food should be here in about twenty minutes." He looked up and cocked his head thoughtfully. "Has he…He hasn't actually turned on the water yet, has he?"

Steve didn't hear anything. "Huh." It might not be anything, but maybe he should check. "I'm just gonna go knock on the door, make sure he's alright."

Sam nodded and returned to his laptop. Steve made his way back down the hall and paused outside the door of the bathroom. He hesitated. Was this…He was probably hovering, wasn't he? He didn't want Bucky to think he was going to be breathing down his neck the whole time he was here. He almost walked away again, but stopped and rapped his knuckles on the door. He'd been really quiet for fifteen minutes, and it was probably nothing, but Steve just needed to make sure it was nothing.

"Hey, Buck? You, ah, you okay?" There was no response. He waited. "Bucky?" he asked tentatively. There was a soft little noise in response that time that Steve couldn't identify, but he didn't like. "Are you alright?" Nothing again. "Is it okay if I come in?"

Steve eased the door open and instinctively started to yank it closed again when he caught sight of Bucky, completely naked, standing next to the tub and staring at the shower, but he stopped just shy of slamming it shut again when the expression he'd caught on Bucky's face finally registered. "Bucky, what's wrong?" he asked.

Bucky was staring at the shower with the same overwhelmed look he'd had when Steve had asked him where he'd wanted to put his stuff, except this time it was multiplied by about ten. He looked terrified. He jumped when Steve spoke, the terror on his face increasing instead of dissipating, and he backed away as far he could—which was only two feet to the left—before he hit the wall. "I'm sorry!" he exclaimed. "I can't—I know I'm supposed to know how this works, but I can't remember! I don't remember, I don't remember, I'm sorry, I'm trying, I'm trying, please…" He was hunching in on himself defensively, sliding down the wall behind him until he was curled into a little ball against the corner of the bathtub. "Please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can figure it out! I can make it work, I just, I need more time, please, I'm sorry, don't…"

"Bucky," Steve breathed sadly. He moved into the room and dropped to his knees on the bathmat in front of his friend. "Bucky, no, it's okay."

"No, no," Bucky said, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and too busy panicking to worry about how close Steve was to him. "I'm getting it wrong, I'm getting everything wrong—this—I can't—I shouldn't—"

He stopped talking abruptly, looking up with a sharp gasp when Steve grabbed his shoulders. "Bucky, listen to me," Steve told him, staring into those steel blue eyes that were still achingly familiar even though they were heartbreakingly lost and afraid. "Listen to me. I can't even begin to imagine what kind of stuff Hydra did to you. But I know they hurt you. I know they hurt you, and Bucky, I am _never_ going to hurt you. I am never going to get mad at you for forgetting something, and I am never going to get mad at you for making a mistake, and no matter how many times you do either one of those, I will never, _ever_ hurt you. And I think you know that. Somewhere in here—" He moved his hand off of Bucky's metal shoulder to tap his chest. "Somewhere in here, you know that, and if you forget it sometimes, I will remind you of it as many times as you need."

Bucky was no longer panicking but sitting still as a statue, staring at Steve wide-eyed and barely breathing.

"You're safe here, Bucky," Steve told him. "You asked me if I would help you, and I will. I'm going to help you because you're my friend, and I want to you to be okay."

"I don't…" Bucky whispered. He shook his head. "I don't even know what that looks like anymore," he said in a small voice.

"I know," Steve said sadly. "I know." Taking a chance, he slid his hands around Bucky's shoulders and to his back, pulling him in carefully. Bucky tensed for just a second, then choked down a sob and fell into the embrace, hiding his face in Steve's chest. "But we're gonna find it together," Steve promised. "You and me. You don't have to do this alone anymore. I'm going to help you, and I'm going to keep you safe, and no one's going to hurt you anymore. You're safe, Bucky," he said, tightening his grip on his friend. "You're home."

The last strains of tension melted out of Bucky's frame, and he sank against Steve and started to cry. Steve just held on and let him, and maybe rocked back and forth a little bit, and if his eyes were watering too, well, the brother he'd lost sixty-nine years ago had finally come home. He was entitled.

They sat there for a long time, neither saying anything. Bucky's hands were latched onto the front of Steve's shirt, and Steve was cradling Bucky's head with one hand, the other rubbing soothing lines slowly up and down his back. Steve could feel the myriad scars on Bucky's back—the lines that stretched halfway across his back were jagged and coarse where skin and scar tissue met, though incongruously soft across their raised surfaces, like the skin was stretched too thin over the ripples of damaged tissue. Each one of them radiated out from where metal and skin were thrust together at the shoulder in a thick, knotted coil of flesh that still felt raw under Steve's fingers. He could also feel Bucky's collar bones and ribs sticking out too sharply as his hand brushed over them, but he wasn't going to think about any of that right now. There would be time later to agonize and rage over how Hydra had hurt him. There would be time later to worry and ache over how he'd spent so much time alone, unfed and uncared for on the streets. There would be all the time in the world for that. Right now was the time to rejoice that those scars and those bones were here to be felt at all, because Bucky was home. Right now was the time to be the first rock, the first anchor his friend had had to hold on to in seven decades. Right now was the start of healing. For both of them.

When Bucky finally stopped shaking, he sat up and looked at Steve, and for the first time, he looked calm. He blinked the last of the tears from his eyes and dashed his metal hand across his nose, and though his mouth didn't move, there was something in his eyes that made Steve think he might be smiling. "Are you okay?" Steve asked.

Bucky sniffed and nodded. "I think so." He looked like he wanted to say something else, so Steve waited. "And I…I do remember you. I don't want you to think I…" He shook his head, unable to find the words he wanted. "You're Steve. You're my friend. And I remember that. And I know…Somewhere…" He gestured at his chest as Steve had done. "You don't want to hurt me. And you won't. And I know that, I just…" He grimaced, having lost the words again. "I'm sorry, I can't…" He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead.

"It's okay," Steve told him. Sam had been right. Bucky was in there, and Bucky trusted him, he just wasn't always the one with his hands on the steering wheel. "I understand."

"You do?" Bucky asked curiously.

"I do," Steve replied. He hoped he looked sincere, and he must have, because a little corner of Bucky's mouth curved up gratefully. Steve got to his feet and held out a hand, which Bucky accepted. He still didn't seem to mind that he was naked, so Steve decided not to say anything. That was probably a whole different can of worms, and they could worry about it later. "You want to try the shower thing again?" he offered.

Bucky drew in a deep breath. "Okay."

"Alright. So, there's not a lot to it," Steve said, reaching forward into the bathtub. "This knob with the red is the hot water. The blue one is cold." He turned the hot water on to demonstrate. "You give it a minute or two to get hot, and you can mix in some cold to keep it from getting _too_ hot, then you flip this little lever right here." He flipped the lever and the water came spraying out the shower head at the top, the abrupt change making Bucky startle a little bit. Steve turned all the water off and flipped the lever back down. "Why don't you try it?" he offered, stepping back and gesturing at the tub.

Bucky moved to take his place, turning on the water and then continuing to adjust the knobs at Steve's encouraging glance. He flipped the lever when he had it set and stared at the spray for a few seconds. "And now I get in it?" he guessed.

Steve nodded. "Mm-hmm." He hated to sound like he thought Bucky was stupid and walk him through each step, but he didn't want to assume again and have another meltdown like before. "Do you know where to go from here?"

Bucky stepped over the wall of the tub and into the spray, eyeing the walls of the shower and the various toiletries on the corner shelf. "I think so," he said, sounding mostly sure of that.

"Do you want me to go?" Steve asked, taking a step towards the door.

"Um," Bucky said uncertainly. He looked down at his feet then back up at Steve again. "No," he said quietly.

"Alright," Steve said, smiling gently. He shut the door and closed the toilet lid, taking a seat. "I'm gonna close this," he said, leaning forward to grab the edge of the shower curtain and slowly pull it closed. "Just to keep the water off the floor." And to give Bucky some privacy, which was probably something else he hadn't had in a long time. "But I'll be right here. You need anything, just ask."

"Thanks," Bucky said softly from behind the curtain. For several minutes it was quiet, and all Steve could hear was the spray of the shower and the drops of water pinging off Bucky's metal arm. He smiled softly to himself and wondered if Bucky remembered that he used to sing in the shower. Loudly. And not always well.

"What's conditioner for?" Bucky asked.

"It goes in your hair after the shampoo," Steve told him. "It's optional, but it's supposed to be good for your hair." Given that Bucky didn't know how the shower worked, it was safe to say he hadn't bathed since escaping Hydra, possibly longer. His hair could probably use it. (Steve refused to think farther than that and wonder how Hydra had gotten him cleaned off when he came back from missions.)

"Okay. Thank you," Bucky said.

After a few more minutes the water went off, and Bucky pulled the curtain back. He was dripping wet, scars and old bruises still painfully visible, and he was _way_ too thin, but he looked a lot better. Steve stood up and handed him a towel. "Feel better?" he asked.

Bucky considered. "Yeah," he replied, sounding faintly surprised by that. "I do."

Steve smiled. "Good." He waited while Bucky dried himself off. "You want to try shaving, or should we save that for later?" He knew Bucky had usually preferred to be clean-shaven, even on missions during the war, when he had to shave with cold water from a tin cup.

"Do you want me to shave?" Bucky asked, his arms moving to tie the towel around his waist seemingly of their own accord.

"I want you to do whatever you want with the hair on your face," Steve replied.

Bucky stepped in front of the mirror and considered, drawing a hand over the scruff covering the lower half of his face. "Can I try?"

"Sure." Steve grabbed a clean razor and some shaving cream, handing them to Bucky and talking him through the process. Like tying the towel around his waist, this seemed to be something his hands remembered how to do, even if he didn't look sure of it himself. He looked much more like the Bucky Steve remembered when he was done.

"Good job," Steve told him, hoping he sounded encouraging and not condescending.

Bucky responded with a small, grateful smile.

Back in Bucky's room, Steve pulled out a pair of clean boxers and some drawstring pants that should tie tight enough to stay up. "Here," he said. "I think these should fit you best. Which shirt do you want?"

Bucky ran his hand thoughtfully over the shirts and sweaters that Steve had brought in. "Can I wear this one?" he asked. His hand was resting on a dark blue hoodie, and it _would_ be the Captain America shield one that Tony had given him as a joke. Steve never wore it out where Tony might see him, but he kept it because it was comfortable.

"Sure." He smiled and left Bucky to get dressed.

"That took a while," Sam remarked when Steve walked back into the kitchen. He was eating noodles and chicken out of a takeout box. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Steve nodded. "He, uh…" He wasn't sure how much he should share. "He didn't remember how the shower worked." He peeked into the tops of the multitude of unopened boxes sitting on the counter to see what else Sam had ordered.

"Mm," Sam replied. "Considering how he smelled, that doesn't surprise me." Steve shot a glare at him, and Sam shrugged. "He cool now, though?"

"I think so." Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "This is gonna be a lot of work. But I think…" He paused, thinking. He'd held on to Bucky and let him cry, and Bucky had let him, and had smiled a little bit and didn't seem as nervous as before. There was still a long way to go, but something had clicked into place. "I think it's gonna be alright."

Bucky came out then, and Steve helped him brush six months' worth of tangles out of his hair, then they had dinner. Bucky ate hesitantly at first, like he wasn't sure how much he was allowed to eat, but Steve and Sam both encouraged him to take as much as he needed, and there wasn't any left by the time they were done.

"I did like it," he told Sam quietly. "Thank you."

Sam looked kind of surprised by that, so he just said, "Sure thing, man."

They went to bed not too long after, and Steve didn't know how well Bucky slept or what might happen or anything, but he told Bucky that if he needed him at all, he shouldn't be scared to come wake him up. Bucky nodded and thanked him, then studied him carefully for a long minute, surprising Steve when he added, "Don't worry, Steve, I'll be here in the morning."

Steve blushed and nodded and said goodnight. Bucky had always been able to read him like a book, and, well, he _had_ been worrying—just a little—that Bucky might decide this was a bad idea and disappear in the middle of the night. He hoped the fact that Bucky knew he was thinking that _and_ the fact that he had promised to stay were both good signs. Back in his room, Steve stopped in the middle not really looking at anything, and huffed a disbelieving laugh, feeling himself smile and aware that he was probably grinning like an idiot, but he couldn't stop. He'd found Bucky. He was really here. His best friend had finally come home, and he'd brought back a little piece of Steve's soul with him. Bucky was back.

And when Steve got up in the morning, Bucky was still there.

* * *


	22. It's Your Love That Brings Me Home

_A/N: Here we go: Bucky's homecoming from Bucky's point of view. Angstier than Steve's version, for sure, because poor, sad Bucky, but hopefully the increase in angst only makes the fluffiness that much sweeter. This one's for Magmia Flare and PrincessStarberry._

_Since this one's a companion to 'Brother, Let Me Be Your Shelter', the title comes from the same Need To Breathe song, "Brother", which, again, is just perfect for these guys._

* * *

Bucky leaned back against the brick, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes and wondering for the millionth time if this was a good idea. He still, if you asked him to put it into words (not that he was good at putting much of anything into words), he still couldn't quite say why he thought he should do this. In April, he had tried to kill Steve. Logic dictated that Steve should want to kill him back. Or at the very least, he should want to punish him for it. Severely. That was how the world worked—well, that was how Bucky's world worked, anyway. But he was still here. Waiting outside Steve's apartment.

There was a tiny little something, something that everyone thought the Asset had killed, that had woken up that day on the bridge. His mask had fallen off and he'd locked eyes with Steve and Steve had said his name. And that little something woke up and said that was important.

They tried to kill it again, when they put him back in the chair. But it came back when the Asset was punching Steve's face into a bloody pulp. It held his hand back, made him hesitate. The Asset never hesitated. It told him he knew him, and then there were images, words and voices that he hadn't seen in decades. Most of them didn't stay, but Steve had saved him, pulled him up out of hell, and he remembered that and he pulled Steve up out of the river.

The Asset didn't like that little something. They always had to hurt him to make it go away, and the Asset crushed it down and locked it up in the darkness in the hope it would leave him alone. For a long time, it did. But it was awake now. And Bucky liked it. He didn't understand it, not all the time, but the more he listened to it, the more of himself he felt come back. And that's why he was here. Because it told him he could trust Steve. And he knew that, he knew it in his (though he couldn't think of the word) soul, but he was afraid. He was so afraid. For nearly seventy years, there had been nothing but pain. He didn't think he could take any more.

He caught the rumble of tires over the wind, something heavy, and that was the bus, and Steve was on it. Now was his moment. It had been his moment yesterday too. And the day before. He couldn't do it. It was too much. Going out. Facing Steve. Too much. He shrank back closer against the wall. Not tonight.

No. No, if he didn't do it now, he would never do it. He would keep putting it off, one more night and one more night until he froze to death behind this stupid dumpster. He needed more than he could do for himself. He needed help. And Steve could do that. Bucky didn't know if he would want to. But he could.

The prospect of getting up, of facing Steve and what came after it was still too much, though. But the bus was leaving and Steve was about to come around the corner, and he only had seconds to decide. Think of it like a mission. One step at a time. And right now, all he had to do was make the first move. Steve would do the rest. There was a glass bottle on the concrete in front of him, and he took a deep breath and nudged it forward with his boot.

"Hello?"

Steve was coming now. Time for the rest of the first move. He stood up.

"Bucky?!"

If he hadn't been so scared, the look of complete shock on Steve's face might have been funny. "Hi, Steve," he whispered. His voice couldn't manage more, but he knew Steve heard it. Steve stared at him in silence a second longer, then his face split into a delighted grin, a smile like sunshine his ma used to say, and Bucky found it gave him the courage to step all the way out from behind the dumpster.

"Hey, Buck," Steve replied, and he moved forward and Bucky instinctively stepped back. There was just so much emotion radiating off of Steve, and maybe it was good, but it was too much to decipher and Bucky was still afraid of what this might turn into, so he backed away, one hand raised as if that would shield him.

Steve stopped. "Right," he said, and some of that wave of emotion was reined back in. "No sudden moves. Sorry."

Whatever Bucky had been expecting—why was he doing this again? What made him think he could actually handle human interaction?—it wasn't that. Steve had startled him, noticed that, and apologized. No one ever apologized to Bucky. No one ever seemed to think he was worth the trouble. Unsure of what to say to that, Bucky nodded, lowering his hand.

"Do you remember me?" Steve asked. He was shooting for casual, Bucky could tell, but there was so much hope there.

Bucky had to swallow the tightness out of his throat before he could speak. "Some," he nodded. "Enough to know that you…" He stopped himself before he could finish, before he could say he remembered Steve was his friend. Before he could say the little something said Steve was more than that, he was his brother. Because maybe that had been true, but that was sixty-nine years ago. A lot had happened since then. "I know who you are," he finished instead.

Steve looked at him like he knew there had been more he'd been going to say, but he just nodded. He smiled at him, a smile it took Bucky a few seconds to decipher. Reassurance. He hadn't seen that in a long time either.

"I've been looking for you," Steve told him. "You're a hard man to find."

"I'm supposed to be," he responded. He wasn't sure what else to say. Right on the edge of the moment of truth now, better to be evasive until he knew how much it was safe to say.

Steve nodded in agreement. "Where have you been?"

"Around," Bucky replied, still evasive, trying to gauge his tone, just like he'd done whenever his handlers spoke to him. What did he actually want to know? "Mostly here," he allowed.

"Here?" Steve asked, clearly surprised. His eyes scanned the alley. "By the dumpster behind my apartment?" There were emotions in his voice again, surprise, concern, and was that…was he hurt?

"Here in New York," Bucky clarified. "It said in the museum that I used to live here, so I came to look around." He'd wandered the neighborhoods, looking for something, for any clue that this might be part of his past. He hadn't found any. He'd kept looking, though, and Steve, being Captain America, had been easy enough to find. "And I knew you were here, so…" He shrugged, not completing the sentence. He'd been watching Steve. Trying to see what he remembered. If he might be safe to approach. He'd stayed out of sight, though. "I moved around a lot, though. Stayed out of the way."

Steve stared at him for a minute, studying him. "You wanted me to hear you just now, didn't you?" he asked, something sparking in his eye.

Bucky inclined his head. That had been the plan.

"Were you…Were you waiting for me?" Steve asked, tilting his head to one side, and there was that hope again.

Bucky nodded again, all he could manage. This was his moment, his opening, and he drew in a deep breath. "I need to ask you something."

"Okay," Steve said invitingly, but Bucky wasn't sure…He wasn't sure how to do this. He'd been wanting to come back, for so long, he'd been wanting to come back, and that was all he wanted, and he didn't always know why, and now he was here and he didn't know how. He didn't know how to say this. He didn't know what Steve would say when he did. He didn't really remember how hope worked, not anymore, but if he had any, Steve was it, and what if this didn't work? What if Steve didn't want him back?

"You said…" Bucky finally managed to start. "You said you—you said you were my friend." He swallowed hard, remembering. So many of his memories were hazy and blurry and painful, but that one was sharp and clear and bright. His friend. Bucky hadn't had a friend for seven decades. Didn't remember what it was like. But he knew it meant someone cared about you. He hadn't had that for seven decades either. And he wanted it so much.

"Did you mean that?" he asked softly. Steve had said it, but had it just been in the emotion of the moment, surprised to see his old friend alive again?

"Yes," Steve said without hesitating. So earnest. He was always so earnest. "Yes, I did."

A cold weight settled in Bucky's stomach. He'd meant it then. He'd thought maybe he had, but he'd meant it then and then Bucky had tried to kill him. He looked down at his feet, ashamed, ready to run, but no, no, he'd made it this far. He could do this. "Even after…" he began, couldn't get the words out. Steve would know what he meant. He looked up. "Do you still mean it?"

"Absolutely," Steve said, again so earnest, still so hopeful. "To the end of the line."

Bucky believed him. He didn't know why, because sixty-nine years with Hydra had taught him never to trust anyone. But Steve was a terrible liar. He remembered that. He remembered what his face looked like when he lied. And he wasn't doing it now. He really…he really meant it.

"That's why I've been looking for you," Steve added.

Bucky felt his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. When Steve had said he'd been looking for him, Bucky assumed it had been to extract some sort of vengeance. Bucky had done a lot of bad, and when you did something wrong, you got punished for it. That was how things worked, and he'd been ready for that. He'd been ready to take whatever Steve was going to dish out in the hope that maybe afterwards, after he'd been punished, maybe then Steve might be willing to help him. That's why he'd wanted to know if Steve still meant what he'd said about being his friend. "Not because…" He stopped, looking away. He was expecting to be punished, but if Steve wasn't going to, he didn't want to remind him that he should.

"Not because of what?" Steve prompted, and he was asking him a question and Bucky's instincts took over before his brain could and made him answer.

"Because of what I did," he replied quickly, the way he was supposed to answer questions. He sighed, grimacing. He hadn't wanted to say that. Now that he had, he may as well finish. "Back in April," he said.

"You mean on the helicarrier?" Steve asked.

Bucky nodded. Yes, on the helicarrier, where he'd fought Steve and shot him and stabbed him, then pounded him into a bloody mess when Steve had refused to fight him. Yes, on the helicarrier, when the bleeding super-soldier he was pinning down morphed into a tiny little asthmatic covered in scrapes and bruises and declaring he could do this all day. Yes, on the helicarrier, when Bucky remembered, and he wasn't the man on the bridge, he wasn't his mission, he was _Steve_ , his best friend and his brother and the stubborn little punk who never gave up on him, and Bucky was supposed to look out for him and here he was beating him to death. Yes. On the helicarrier.

"I…" Steve's face fell, and there was that concern, that _hurt_ from before. "Buck, I haven't been hunting you down to get back at you for that."

"Really?" Bucky believed him, because Steve was a terrible liar, and he still wasn't lying now, but that was just so…not the way the world worked that he was having trouble wrapping his brain around it. It wasn't supposed to be that easy. But he was hopeful now. At least, he thought that's what that was.

"Really," Steve insisted.

Bucky believed him, but he hadn't expected that answer, so he hadn't planned for the conversation to take this turn. He chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip, searching for the next words. Thankfully, Steve gave him an opening. "What did you really want to ask me?"

Bucky nodded, acknowledging that Steve had read the situation correctly. He drew in a deep breath. This was why he was here. He could do this. "If you're not mad," he began slowly, making sure. "Would you…" He swallowed hard, the words getting caught in his throat. This was hard, this was so hard, and he used to talk better than this, he knew he did. But he was asking for something for himself, and he wasn't allowed to do that. No, he _hadn't_ been allowed to do that. Maybe it was okay now.

"You said you were my friend, and I…I think I need that." He knew he needed that. And Steve, even when he'd thought Steve would be mad, he'd still known that Steve could give him that. "I need...There's a lot I don't remember, but I remember you." He did, he remembered Steve. Steve was safe and Steve was home and Steve was his friend, and if Steve would let him, Bucky wanted that back. "And I think you could help me find it. I remember we…" He remembered they looked out for each other, that they never gave up on each other, and that was why he was here, because he needed a friend and he needed help, and Steve…He sighed deeply. He was so close. So close. Just do it. Do it. Say it. "Will you help me?"

"Of course, Bucky," Steve said, and there was that smile again, that smile like sunshine. "Of course, I will." He stepped closer, and Bucky didn't back away this time. "That's all I've been wanting to do."

"You _wanted_ to help me?" Bucky asked in surprise. Steve had said he didn't want revenge, but there was a difference between not wanting to hurt someone and actually wanting to help them. And after everything Bucky had done to him, he'd kind of thought he might have to talk him into it. Or at least, that he wouldn't be so enthusiastic about it.

"More than anything," Steve replied sincerely.

"Even though I tried to kill you?" Bucky knew they'd covered that already, he just…This was kindness, Steve was kind, and Bucky knew that, he _knew_ it, but it was one thing to know it and another to see it. He hadn't seen it in such a long time. "Thank you," he said after Steve nodded, and that felt inadequate, but he didn't know what else to say.

"You're welcome," Steve replied. Slowly, and Bucky knew he was moving slowly so he wouldn't scare him, he reached out a hand and rested it on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky tensed instinctively, but didn't jerk away—he was used to physical touch being painful, but this was a thing people did, this reassuring touch thing. He was going to have to get used to it.

"You want to come inside?" Steve asked, nodding at the building they were standing outside of. "It's awfully cold out here."

It _was_ cold, and Bucky hated the cold, hated it more than anything. But Steve had just asked him if he wanted something, and did he know what a big question that was? He was offering him the first choice anyone had offered him since 1945, and was coming home really as easy as all that, as just saying yes? "Okay," he said, nodding slowly. He didn't know what came next and that scared him, but he still wanted it. He really did.

Steve nodded and smiled and turned, and Bucky gripped the straps of his backpack and followed along behind him. Into the building and up the stairs, and he knew Steve lived on the third floor because he'd been watching him, but he'd never been inside, so he counted windows and exits, noted corners and cameras, gauged the distance between doors. Where might threats come from and what was the fastest way out? Just in case.

They reached the door and he suddenly felt uneasy (well, _more_ uneasy), following Steve in. He couldn't say why, he just…This didn't feel like a world he belonged in.

"Is everything okay?" Steve asked.

"No, I—I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

Bucky nodded. He was mostly sure.

"Okay," Steve said. "If there's something wrong, though, you can let me know, alright? Or if you have questions or anything," he added.

Bucky nodded again. It was sinking in, this huge decision he'd made by following Steve, and he hoped he was ready for it. Could he just…live a life? He didn't remember how. But Steve would show him. Steve said he wanted to help. And Steve said he could ask questions. And whatever else was wrong in his head, he trusted Steve.

"Okay," Steve said, looking him over like he was making sure he really _was_ okay. "So, uh, let me show you around." He stepped further into the apartment and Bucky followed him. "This right here is the kitchen." Along one wall was a refrigerator and a stove, separated by a counter and dark wooden cabinets, topped with some jars and a couple of appliances Bucky couldn't identify. On the other side was another long counter with a sink on top and cabinets underneath. It felt welcoming and clean. Steve had always been pretty clean.

"Anything in the fridge, you're welcome to," Steve added, waving a hand at the large silver appliance. "Unless it has Sam's name on it. He's kind of possessive of his leftovers." Steve smiled at that, and maybe that was a joke, but Bucky wasn't sure how to respond to it.

"Living room over here," Steve said, waving across the counter with the sink to the room beyond. There was a long couch and three comfortable-looking chairs, with a big window and what Bucky thought was a TV on a table in front of it. There was a coffee table with an empty cup on it and a stack of books.

"There's a little laundry room/pantry thing around the corner there," Steve went on, gesturing at a door to the side of the kitchen. "And this hallway goes back to the bedrooms." He moved into the hall and Bucky followed. "The bathroom is there at the end," Steve said, pointing at the door at the end of the hall. "And that's Sam's room next to it."

Sam. That was the second time Steve had said that name. He talked like Bucky should know him, but it wasn't ringing any bells. "Um," he started, not sure if it was okay to interrupt or if he should wait until Steve was done.

"Yeah?" Steve asked, and he didn't seem upset that Bucky had interrupted him.

It was okay, he could ask questions. Steve said he could. "Um, sorry, but who…who is Sam? Am I…Am I supposed to know him?" He hoped the answer was no. He didn't want to start off further behind than he already was.

Steve paused. "Oh," he said, realization dawning on his face. "Um, you know what, no, actually." Oh, good. "Sorry, I forgot. You've…crossed paths, but I don't think you've ever talked to him. He's a friend of mine. He lives here too," he finished.

Oh, okay. He did know, from his watching, that there was someone else who lived here. Apparently, his name was Sam. "Okay," Bucky nodded. "Thank you," he added, making sure Steve knew he appreciated him taking the time to explain things.

Steve nodded and smiled, then looked around the hall, like he was searching for his train of thought. "Um, oh, yeah, this one's my room," he said. He stepped forward and pushed open one of the doors. He didn't go in, so Bucky didn't either, but he looked inside, committing it to memory. "You're welcome to come in any time, you know, if you need me for anything," Steve told him.

"And this one…" He stepped across the hall and pushed open another door. "Is your room."

He stepped inside it, but Bucky didn't follow, standing in the doorway and trying to make sure he'd heard him right. The room Steve stepped into was soft blue, warm light pouring in from the window. There was a bed against the wall with lots of pillows on it, a desk and a lamp and a dresser in the corner. It looked safe and soft and nice. It looked so… _normal_. Was this…Bucky felt his mouth opening and closing as it searched for words. Was this really for him? "My room?" he whispered at last.

"Yeah," Steve replied. He looked at him carefully. "Is that okay?"

Bucky finally took a step into the room. Was this okay? This was…This was…There just weren't words for it, in English or Russian or any of the other languages Bucky knew. "You…You had a place for me?"

Steve smiled warmly, sad, but warm. "Yeah, Buck," he said softly. "It's been ready for you since we moved in. I was gonna keep looking for you until I found you, and I wanted you to have somewhere to stay when I did."

Emotion swelled up in Bucky's chest and he swallowed it down, not sure what would come out if he opened his mouth. Steve really _had_ meant it. He really _had_ wanted to find him, expected to find him. Wanted to bring him home. To help him. He'd never given up. "You really did this for me?" Bucky asked softly.

He felt Steve nod beside him. He stared down at the bed, resting his fingers carefully on the dark blue blanket. It was really a bed. A bed for him. He'd never been allowed to have a bed before, not since he could remember. He slept in his cryo-tube, or maybe the on floor or a chair when he was on a mission. Beds weren't for machines, beds were for people, and whatever the Asset may have been, he wasn't a person. Bucky still wasn't sure he could call himself that. But Steve thought he was. Steve had gotten him a room and Steve had gotten him a bed, and beds were for people. And people could be saved. You couldn't save a machine. But you could save a person. And Steve…Steve thought Bucky was a person. Steve thought Bucky could be saved. "You got me a bed," Bucky whispered, his voice shaking, unable to say more.

"Yeah, Buck," Steve said warmly. "I did."

He put up a hand and squeezed his shoulder, then let go, like he knew touch still made Bucky nervous. Bucky looked up and Steve was smiling softly. "Welcome home," he told him.

Home. Bucky was…Bucky was home. Steve wanted to help him and he made a place for him, and Bucky was home. Something tugged up one corner of his mouth, some emotion he hadn't felt in so long it felt rusty from disuse, but he was smiling. "Thank you," he said softly, and this time he knew that was all he had to say.

He looked back down at the bed, running his fingers over it again. It was really a bed. And it was really for him. Distantly, the front door opened and closed, and the peaceful moment shattered as tension snapped Bucky's spine up straight. He was spinning to face the door and reaching a hand back under his jacket towards his gun, everything on automatic as he gauged whatever this new threat was.

"It's okay," Steve said, raising one of his hands. "That's just Sam coming home."

Oh, right. The other person that lived here. "Steve? You here, man?" called a voice from the front of the apartment. It sounded casual. Steve looked unconcerned. This was normal. Okay. He pulled his hand away from his weapon.

"Yeah," Steve answered the voice. He looked back at Bucky. "You want to come out and meet him?" he offered. "It's okay if you don't," he added, as if he knew how disconcerting the addition of a new person into this was. "You can stay in here and I'll just let him know you're here."

Bucky drew in a deep breath and considered. Steve was asking him what he wanted again. And he was…He clearly wanted him to come out and meet Sam, but he said it was fine if Bucky didn't want to. Was it actually fine? Bucky _didn't_ want to come out and meet Sam, but, well…whether that was allowed or not, tactically, he probably should. There was another person here, and they were going to stay here. Bucky should know who they were. Size them up. "No, I…" Bucky started, nodding. He needed to get eyes on this Sam. "I can come."

"Okay," Steve said, and he smiled, and that was good. Bucky had made the right choice. Bucky followed behind him as he moved back to the kitchen. "Hey, Sam. We've got company."

"Oh, okay," Sam said, and his back was to Steve. He was putting something in the fridge. He didn't sound worried about the presence of another person. "If they're staying for supper, we may have to order in, 'cause I—" He turned around, losing his voice as his eyes found Bucky. "Oh," he said quietly. "Wow."

Bucky stared at Sam, waiting for him to make the first move. He didn't look familiar. He was clearly surprised, maybe even a little uneasy. Was this the unease of having a stranger in his house? Or was it more? Did he know who Bucky was? Bucky studied him. He seemed to recognize Bucky in some way—Steve had probably told him about him—but he didn't look afraid enough to know who Bucky really was. He carried himself like a soldier, like Steve did, and looked strong enough not to be dismissed in a fight. But he was a soldier at ease. He _could_ fight, but he wasn't going to. Not a threat.

"Hey, man," Sam said, breaking the silence, and his voice sounded steady again. "Good to see you again. I don't know if you remember, but I'm Sam."

That's right, Steve had said they'd crossed paths before. Whatever that meant. Bucky didn't remember. His hand went up automatically to meet the one Sam had extended to shake it. That surprised him a little. He remembered that was a thing people did. He didn't think he'd done it in a while, but his hand seemed to remember how. Bucky expanded his original evaluation as he looked Sam over, taking in his relaxed posture and his slightly awkward smile. Not a threat, maybe thrown a little off-balance, but…friendly. "Hi, Sam," he said.

He let go of Sam's hand, and the silence stretched out. Sam looked uncomfortable with it. "So, uh, I'll work on getting some dinner," Sam said. He took a couple of steps back and eyed the fridge, like he was mentally running through the contents. "I don't think we have enough groceries for _two_ super soldiers, so, uh…You like Chinese food?"

Wait, him? Was he asking him? He should answer that, what was the answer? "I don't know," he replied. He hoped that answer was okay. It was the only one he had.

"Oh. Right." Sam seemed…it seemed like that answer was acceptable. "Well, I guess we can give it a try. That work for you, Steve?"

"Chinese sounds great," Steve replied. "Thanks." Sam nodded. Steve turned back to look at Bucky. "We can go and get you settled in while he's working on that." He moved like he was going to put his hand on Bucky's shoulder again, but he caught himself and just waved towards the hallway instead. Bucky followed him back to his room.

"Do you, um…" Steve looked at him a little uncertainly. "Do you have any stuff you want to unpack?"

Bucky slid the backpack from off his shoulders, holding on to one strap. There wasn't a lot in there, but that was a thing people did too, when they lived somewhere. Unpacking. And he knew how to unpack—he would do it after missions with his gear. But there were always rules about where things went. "Where do you want me to put it?" he asked Steve.

"It's your room," Steve told him. "You can put it wherever you want to." He threw out a hand, gesturing around the room. "The closet's empty, and there's lots of drawers in the dresser and the desk, but you can throw it on the floor if that's what you want to do with it."

Bucky stared down at his backpack. That was…That was a lot of choices. Steve kept giving him choices, kept asking what he wanted—did he not understand how hard that was? Bucky didn't get to do what he wanted—he did what other people wanted, and he had for so long now he didn't know how to figure out what he _did_ want. Steve kept giving him choices. And people got to make choices, and Steve thought Bucky was a person. Bucky got to make choices now. But it was too many options. "Can you please tell me where it should go?" he asked quietly, cringing inwardly. He knew that wasn't the response Steve wanted, but he just didn't know how to do it. It was too much.

"Okay," Steve said, and he looked kind of sad, but he didn't look angry. He did that reassuring smile thing again, and Bucky guessed that meant it was okay. "Let's see what you've got," Steve said, gesturing at Bucky's backpack.

Bucky unzipped the backpack and emptied it out on the bed. There wasn't a lot in there—just some ammunition, a little bit of food and the notebooks where he wrote things he remembered. "Okay," Steve started, looking over everything. "Let's start with these." He picked up the ammunition clips. "I'm guessing these go to a gun that's…on you, somewhere?"

Yeah, Steve would have picked that up. Bucky nodded uncertainly. He knew normal people didn't keep guns on them all the time. Was Steve going to demand he turn it over? That would make sense—Bucky was dangerous enough on his own; it wouldn't be unreasonable to insist that he not be armed. But the thought of not being armed at all felt…That scared him. He didn't think he was ready for that yet.

"Alright," Steve said. If Bucky was reading him right, he didn't sound like the gun bothered him. "What if we put some of it in the drawer in the nightstand and some of it in the desk? That way, it's in different parts of the room in case you need it."

"Okay," Bucky agreed. He relaxed a little bit. Steve wasn't mad that he wanted to keep the gun, and it sounded like he knew having the ammo readily available would make Bucky feel safer. Not that he had any intention of using it against Steve, but who knew what else was out there? But Steve seemed to get that.

"And maybe split the knives that way too? Steve suggested. "Even spread?"

Bucky nodded again. That sounded good. They spent a few minutes putting the weapons away. Bucky kept looking over at Steve as he did so, in case maybe he was doing something wrong, but Steve seemed content with where Bucky was placing things. Bucky did swallow a little nervously when Steve picked up and unrolled his combat outfit, studying it carefully. He frowned at the black leather. "Do you want to keep this?" he asked. Nothing in his tone suggested what the right answer would be.

Bucky opened his mouth, looking for words, couldn't find them and closed it again. "I don't know," he said quietly. That was rarely an acceptable answer, but he really didn't. He wanted to get rid of it, this tie to Hydra, but he couldn't. It was part of his gear, and the punishment for damaging Hydra's property was severe. He hadn't been able to make himself do it. "I tried…I couldn't throw it away." He didn't think Steve wanted him to keep it, so he felt like he should try to explain.

"Alright," Steve said, and he didn't sound mad. He sounded kind of sad again, though. That probably wasn't good. He contemplated the outfit a moment longer, then looked towards the closet. "How about I put it in the closet?" he offered. He looped it over a hanger and slid it all the way down to the end, out of sight. "It's here in the back, out of the way, so you don't have to see it." Good. That was good. Bucky hated that outfit. "You can decide what you want to do with it later," Steve finished. More choices. That one…that was probably an important one. Steve wanted Bucky to make it himself. When he could.

The rest of his meager belongings were put away quickly. "Now," Steve said, looking up from the notebooks on the desk. "If you decide you don't like where any of this is, you can move it. Okay?" He waited and seemed to want an answer to that, so Bucky nodded. "Later on, we'll see about getting you some more clothes and stuff," Steve continued. "But for now, you can borrow some of mine."

"Really?" Bucky asked. He hadn't really thought about stuff like that, though he was aware that his own clothes were in pretty sorry shape. He didn't know how to get more without stealing them, and he…he didn't want to do that. It was awfully nice of Steve to loan his to Bucky—Bucky wasn't in the best shape either, and he didn't want to mess up Steve's stuff.

"Sure," Steve said, casually. He really didn't seem to mind. "It may be a little big, but that's alright." Steve was only a little bit taller than Bucky, but Bucky had lost a lot of weight since running away from Hydra. Like the clothes, it…stealing was wrong, he knew that, and it was hard to get enough food for his metabolism. He had just gotten used to feeling hungry most of the time.

"Let me go grab some of it for you," Steve said, and he left the room, crossing the hall to his own room. Bucky looked around the room he was suddenly alone in. His room. This was his room. His eyes landed on the notebooks on the desk. That was where he kept his memories. What he did remember was scattered and chaotic, and when a new memory came back, it didn't always stay, so he'd started writing them down. The red one and the black one were full and dog-eared from being flipped through so many times. The green one only had a few pages filled out. He moved towards it, then hesitated. A lot of the things that came back did it while he was asleep—if it was right next to where he was sleeping, he could write them down quickly before they went away. He wanted the notebook by the bed. But it was on the desk. That was where Steve had put it, so that was where it went. He swallowed hard. No. Steve said he could move things. Steve wasn't going to get mad if he moved it. It was fine. He trusted Steve.

Taking a deep breath, he moved to the desk, picked up the green notebook with the pen clipped into the coil, and brought it back to the bed, setting it carefully on the bedside table. He jumped a little when Steve's cleared his throat from the doorway, announcing his presence, then turned and watched him come in with a pile of clothes in his arms. He knew Steve had seen him move the notebook, and Steve didn't seem bothered by it at all. He let out a little exhale of relief. See? It was okay.

"Here you go," Steve said, setting the pile of clothes down on the bed. "I brought you a few different things so you can decide what feels more comfortable."

"Thank you," Bucky told him. That was a lot of clothes. Was Steve really letting him use them all?

"If you want," Steve offered, looking up from the clothes and back at Bucky. "I can wash what you've got on there so it'll be clean for you." He nodded at Bucky's chest, encompassing his outfit in the gesture. Bucky had been wearing these clothes since April, when he got away. He didn't know if he wanted to keep them, but it was…he found himself really appreciating that Steve was offering to clean them and give them back instead of getting rid of them. Like he knew Bucky didn't have a lot, and he didn't want to take away what he did have. And Bucky knew they were dirty and torn and didn't smell very good anymore, and he had gotten used to it, but it would…it would be nice to have clean clothes again.

"Okay," he said, shucking his coat and reaching for the buckle of his belt. He may as well go ahead and make the change.

"Whoa!" Steve said suddenly, raising his hands quickly as Bucky started to undo the belt. His tone was different, something was bothering him, oh, no, oh, no, Bucky had done something wrong, what was he doing wrong?

"I meant," Steve hurried on. "I thought you might want to take a shower, and _then_ you could change and we could get everything washed."

"Oh," Bucky grimaced. That's right, normal people didn't just take their clothes off in front of each other, did they? Bucky was a person now. He kept forgetting that. Hydra used to strip him down whenever they needed to clean him or work on him, or anything like that. He'd forgotten that wasn't supposed to be okay. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, instinctively backing away. He'd messed up, that was a big mistake, and he winced and took another couple of steps back. "I didn't understand, I'm sorry," he said again. How mad was Steve going to be?

"No, hey, it's okay," Steve said quickly, and whatever had been upset in his voice before was gone now, replaced with that reassurance again. "It's alright, I'm not mad. It, you know what? It was me; I should have been more clear. It's fine." Oh, okay. He was a little surprised how fast that reassurance in Steve's voice could calm him down. He _did_ trust Steve, even if it took a minute to cut through the Hydra programming.

"Would you like to take a shower?" Steve asked. That was a choice again. The answer Steve wanted was fairly obvious, but Bucky knew now he could actually make the choice, so he took the time to think it over. Beyond the occasional covert dip into a swimming pool or getting caught in a rain storm, Bucky hadn't been clean, _really_ clean, in a long time. He thought it might feel good to be clean again. It _would_ feel good. And who knew? Maybe it would help him feel more like a person again.

"Okay," Bucky said. He nodded and Steve smiled and Bucky followed him to the bathroom.

Bucky paid close attention as Steve pointed out where everything was, assuring him he could use whatever he needed to. "Take as long as you'd like," Steve told him. "We've got plenty of hot water." Steve's smile told him that was a good thing, and Bucky nodded back, considering the bathroom. This was familiar. Sort of.

Steve left and shut the door behind him. Bucky stood there, staring at the shower. The concept of a shower was not foreign to him, but now that he was standing here looking at it, he didn't actually remember how it worked. He'd never…He'd certainly never showered since getting away from Hydra, and as far as his memories went, he didn't think he'd showered _with_ them either. Handlers came and went as the years went by, but whoever the handlers at the time were, they would strip him down after a mission, take note of any injuries, and then just spray him down. The hose they used blasted the water at him so hard that it stung, and it was always cold. If there was blood or dirt that required more force to remove, one of them would come in with a brush with hard, prickly bristles. He was just supposed to stand there and not move.

He cast his mind further back. Maybe something there remembered how this thing worked. But no, there wasn't…wait, wait a minute, there was something. It was…It was a girl. He closed his eyes, trying to see it, and he couldn't see it, but he could hear it. He was in the shower, and he could hear the water. The girl was outside. She was pounding on the door and yelling at him to hurry up. His eyes snapped open and he drew in a sharp breath. His sister. Most of the time, he remembered that he had a sister. He didn't remember her name, and he hadn't seen her face yet, but he could hear her voice sometimes in his memories. This one was new. He hoped he could remember it long enough to write it down.

But back to the shower. While he was happy to have remembered something about his sister, it didn't solve the immediate problem of how to do this. Maybe if he acted like he was getting ready for the shower, his body would remember what it was supposed to do and take over. That happened sometimes, like earlier when he'd shaken Sam's hand.

First, he removed his weapons, setting his gun and the knife from his boot carefully on the counter. He suddenly felt very aware of how dirty everything he had on was, and how nice and clean Steve's bathroom was. He stepped off the bathmat and over onto the tile by the toilet, then took off his shoes and his clothes and left them there, where any mess they made would be easier for him to clean up.

Unfortunately, that was as far as he knew how to go on his own with getting ready to shower, and no more memories seemed to be forthcoming. He stared at each piece of it intently. Water…water came out of the top. He knew that. There were only a few little pieces at the bottom, and one of them made the water come out. Probably. But he didn't know which one. If it even was one of them. And experimentation was frowned upon. He'd gotten in very serious trouble for trying things that he didn't know how they worked, and even more when that had resulted in something breaking. And Steve wasn't Hydra, he knew that, he _knew_ it, he _knew_ it, but this was taking longer than he knew it should, and he could feel that fear and that instinct and that programming kicking in and taking over and he didn't know how to stop it. What was he supposed to do?

There was a soft rapping on the door and Bucky flinched and swallowed hard. That was Steve coming back to check on him, and he'd been in here too long and nothing had happened and he was doing this wrong.

"Hey, Buck?" came Steve's voice, and he didn't sound mad, but his handlers did that sometimes, acting like they weren't mad when they really were. It was always worse then. "You, ah, you okay? Bucky?" Bucky didn't say anything—he didn't think he _could_ say anything, and he didn't think he could move, but a tiny, pitiful little sound managed to crawl past his frozen vocal chords.

"Are you alright?" Steve asked, and Bucky couldn't say anything and he didn't know what to do and his brain was glitching and that was bad because they always put him back in the chair when that happened, always had to hurt him to get his head back on straight again, except it wasn't straight, was it? It was messed up, and this was messed up and he was doing everything wrong and he didn't know what to do. He was aware of Steve saying something else and then the door opening slowly behind him, but it was all he could do to just stand there and beg his brain to remember how to do this because he was running out of time.

"Bucky, what's wrong?"

Bucky jumped and backed away, hitting the wall behind him. Steve didn't want to hurt him—he looked worried, not mad—but Bucky was having trouble remembering that right now. He had made a mistake, he had forgotten something important, something he was supposed to know, and when you did that you got in trouble, and that was all his brain could process right now.

"I'm sorry!" Bucky exclaimed "I can't—I know I'm supposed to know how this works, but I can't remember! I don't remember, I don't remember, I'm sorry, I'm trying, I'm trying, please…" Steve took a step forward and Bucky shrank back, but the with wall behind him, there was nowhere to go but down, and he slid down into the corner until he couldn't go any further. "Please," he begged, even though begging had never worked. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can figure it out!" Maybe if he could make it work, he wouldn't get in trouble. "I can make it work, I just, I need more time, please, I'm sorry, don't…"

"Bucky," he heard in a sad exhale from Steve. "Bucky, no, it's okay."

"No, no," Bucky protested, and he was vaguely aware that Steve was _very_ close to him right now, but there was too much going on in his brain to get beyond that. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, feeling panic churning in his gut and coiling around his spine. "I'm getting it wrong, I'm getting everything wrong—this—I can't—I shouldn't—" He shouldn't've come back, this was a mistake, he was just making everything worse.

He gasped and stopped talking abruptly when two large hands grabbed his shoulders. He snapped his head up and Steve was looking at him, very close and very sad, but there was nothing but compassion swimming in those blue eyes.

"Bucky, listen to me," Steve said. He squeezed his shoulders a little tighter. "Listen to me. I can't even begin to imagine what kind of stuff Hydra did to you. But I know they hurt you. I know they hurt you, and, Bucky, I am _never_ going to hurt you. I am never going to get mad at you for forgetting something, and I am never going to get mad at you for making a mistake, and no matter how many times you do either one of those, I will never, _ever_ hurt you. And I think you know that. Somewhere in here…" He took his hand off of Bucky's metal shoulder and tapped him twice on the chest. "Somewhere in here, you know that, and if you forget it sometimes, I will remind you of it as many times as you need."

He meant it. He always meant it—Steve was a terrible liar—and he really…he really wasn't going to get mad. He really wasn't going to punish Bucky for things he did wrong.

"You're safe here, Bucky," Steve told him firmly. "You asked me if I would help you, and I will. I'm going to help you because you're my friend, and I want you to be okay."

Safe. Bucky was safe. Steve was safe, and he wasn't going to hurt Bucky, he really wasn't, and he was going to help him and make him okay again. But okay…

"I don't…" Bucky said softly, finding his voice again. "I don't even know what that looks like anymore." Okay was so…he was a wreck, and okay was so far away he didn't see how he could ever get there.

"I know," Steve said sadly. "I know." He slid his hands around to Bucky's back and pulled him in for a hug, and Bucky tensed instinctively at the touch, then swallowed down a sob of relief or defeat or acceptance or whatever the hell that emotion was and melted forward into the embrace. These were arms that were safe. These were hands that weren't going to hurt him. This was safe and warm and compassion and family and all those things that Bucky hadn't felt since 1945.

"But we're gonna find it together," Steve told him, and Bucky wasn't sure what he knew anymore, but he believed that. "You and me. You don't have to do this alone anymore." He'd been alone for such a long time. But now he wasn't. "I'm going to help you, and no one's going to hurt you anymore. You're safe, Bucky. You're home."

Steve tightened his grip on him and Bucky felt the last of the tension melt out of his body and he sank into Steve and he started to cry. Crying wasn't allowed, it was weak and forbidden and would be punished severely, but not anymore. He could do it now. He _needed_ to do it now. All the pain of the last sixty-nine years finally had somewhere to go, and it was sharp and it hurt, but it was such a _relief_ that once he started he couldn't stop. And he didn't have to. Steve just held on to him and let him do it.

They sat there on the floor like that for a long time. Bucky's hands were clenched in the front of Steve's shirt, and there was something incredibly anchoring about the knot of soft cotton in his fist. His back was trembling, occasionally heaving as another wave of sobbing wracked his body, and Steve would just pull him in a little closer and rub his hand up and down his back. The hand rubbing soothing lines between his shoulders and the one cradling his head protectively were large and warm and soothing and so very comforting. For sixty-nine years, any touch in Bucky's world had equaled pain, but this was safe. This was home. Bucky had found his family again.

Eventually, his tears ran out and his shaking subsided. He sat up and looked at Steve, and Steve had been crying too. Maybe that shouldn't've made him happy, but it did. Because those were happy tears in Steve's eyes. They _both_ had found their family again.

Bucky blinked and dashed his metal hand across his nose, and he felt…he wasn't sure what that was, didn't remember the word 'content', but it was good. "Are you okay?" Steve asked him.

Bucky nodded. "I think so." And he was. All that, that programming, everything Hydra had put in him, that was all still there, but something was different now. Bucky wasn't afraid anymore. And Steve…Now that clarity was settling back in, there was something he needed to make sure Steve knew.

"And I…I do remember you," he told him. "I don't want you to think I…" Didn't want him to think he was just some name he'd pulled off a display in a museum. Bucky had tried to find him for a reason. He couldn't quite articulate that, so he just tried to say what he did know. "You're Steve. You're my friend. And I remember that. And I know…Somewhere…" He was starting to lose the words again, so he gestured at his chest like Steve had done earlier. "You don't want to hurt me. And you won't. And I know that." He knew that and he believed that, and he needed Steve to know it too, to know that he trusted him. "I just…I'm sorry, I can't…" No matter how safe he knew Steve was, there were seven decades of conditioning that would kick in sometimes before his brain could stop it, but that didn't mean he didn't trust him, and it was really important that he know that. Bucky just didn't know how to say it. He sighed and pressed a hand to his forehead, frustrated at the lack of words he knew he used to have.

"It's okay," Steve told him, and there was that reassuring smile again. "I understand."

"You do?" Bucky didn't think he'd explained it well at all.

"I do," Steve said, and that look in his eyes said he really did, and Bucky felt gratitude tugging one corner of his mouth up into a smile.

Steve stood up, and Bucky accepted the hand he held out to get to his own feet. "You want to try the shower thing again?" Steve offered.

Bucky drew in a deep breath. That had gone so well the first time. But he could do this. "Okay."

"Alright," Steve said with a smile. "So, there's not a lot to it." He leaned forward into the bathtub and spun one of the knobs, sending a stream of water splashing down into the tub. "This knob with the red is hot water. The blue one is cold. You give it a minute or two to get hot, and you can mix in some cold to keep it from getting _too_ hot, then you flip this little lever up here."

Bucky jumped a little bit at the abrupt change as the water came shooting out from the shower head at the top instead. Steve turned everything off and flipped the lever back down. "Why don't you try it?" he offered, taking a few steps back and gesturing at the handles.

Now that he knew what he was supposed to do, it didn't look that hard. Bucky turned on the water, looking up at Steve to make sure he was doing it right as he adjusted the temperature. When it seemed right, he flipped the lever, then stood staring at the spray for a few seconds. "And now I get in it?" he guessed. That seemed like the logical next step, but his own logic was pretty far down on the list of things he trusted these days.

Steve nodded. "Mm-hmm," he said, and he didn't sound bothered that Bucky wanted to double-check. He looked like he was considering something, then asked carefully, "Do you know where to go from here?"

Bucky stepped into the tub and looked around. There was soap, and Steve had told him the shampoo was for washing his hair, and…yeah. He could probably figure this out now. "I think so."

"Do you want me to go?" Steve asked, taking a small step back.

"Um," Bucky said hesitantly. He did remember that showering was generally something you did by yourself, but even though he was feeling a lot better about being here now, he didn't trust himself not to mess up again. And he knew it was okay if he messed up, but it would be better if he could avoid it. And it was like Steve knew that, so he was making what Bucky knew was kind of an unusual offer. "No," he said quietly.

"Alright," Steve said with a soft smile that let Bucky know that answer had been okay. He shut the door and closed the toilet lid, sitting down on top of it. "I'm gonna close this," he said, and he reached forward and pulled the curtain closed across the shower. "Just to keep the water off the floor." Oh, yeah, the water spraying everywhere probably was going to make a mess, wasn't it? But Bucky realized that, more than that, Steve was giving him privacy. That was a thing people got too. "But I'll be right here," Steve finished. "You need anything, just ask."

"Thanks," Bucky said softly, and he felt the urge to cry again, suddenly overwhelmed that he was here and he was safe and Steve was just giving him so much so happily.

He stood there for a moment, enjoying the feel of the hot water against his skin. It stung a little bit where muscle met metal, but he didn't really mind. It was a good kind of hurt. The water made sharp little ringing noises as it bounced off his metal arm, and he watched it for a minute as it rinsed clean streaks through the grime that had accumulated over the past few months. The water swirled brown around his feet as those same months of dirt were washed from the rest of his body. All that dirt, all that fear, all that bad stuff, washing away.

He reached for the soap, and this, he remembered. Even the Asset had needed to wash his hands, his face, and now muscle memory came back, reminding him how to do the rest of it. It took a couple of passes—there was a _lot_ of dirt, and he kept washing until the soap suds came away white. Now that his brain was settling again, he thought he could hear his sister pounding on the door again. He still couldn't see the memory, but he heard another piece of it—his sister was yelling and he didn't respond, just increased the volume of his singing. Singing. That was…that was a thing he used to do. He didn't remember any songs, though. Maybe later he could ask Steve to teach him some.

He washed his hair next, and though he had to read the instructions on the side of the bottle, once he got going, he remembered that too. He washed until those suds ran clean too. It smelled nice. Like…He didn't know what that was. A fruit, maybe? Whatever it was, it was nice.

"What's conditioner for?" he asked Steve, eying the bottle sitting next to the shampoo.

"It goes in your hair after the shampoo," Steve told him from the other side of the curtain. "It's optional, but it's supposed to be good for your hair."

"Okay," Bucky replied. His hair could probably use something that was good for it. "Thank you."

He lathered in the conditioner, then stood there enjoying the warm water a little longer—the bottle said you were supposed to leave it in for a few minutes. It felt a little weird standing there not doing anything, but the water felt really nice. His hair felt a little softer as he rinsed the conditioner out.

He turned off the water and made sure he had twisted the knobs all the way and flipped the lever before pulling the curtain back. Steve was still sitting there, and he smiled and stood up, offering him a towel. "Feel better?" he asked.

"Yeah," Bucky replied, surprised to find that was true. He hadn't expected the shower to be so effective. "I do."

"Good," Steve replied happily. He nodded that it was okay for Bucky to step onto the mat while he was wet, then waited as Bucky dried himself off. "You want to try shaving, or should we save that for later?" he asked, nodding at the sink.

"Do you want me to shave?" Bucky asked. He finished drying his hair and his hands went to wrap the towel around his waist, folding and tucking it at the hip so it would stay up. Huh. That was interesting. He hadn't told them to do that. But that was…That was what you did after a shower, and he guessed they remembered how, and, that's right, it was probably weird that he was just standing here naked in front of Steve, wasn't it? That's why Steve had been keeping his eyes on Bucky's face. Bucky thought maybe he should be embarrassed, but he didn't really remember how. He did appreciate that Steve wasn't saying anything to make him feel bad about it, though. It was one of those mistakes that Steve wasn't going to get mad at him for.

"I want you to do whatever you want with the hair on your face," Steve told him.

Oh, yeah. Choices. What _did_ he want to do with the hair on his face? He stepped in front of the mirror and looked at himself, really looked at himself for the first time in a while. Hydra used to shave him sometimes. They would make somebody expendable do it—he had a memory of an old razor, the kind that was just a blade, and he was pretty sure he'd tried to kill the first person who'd come at his face with one of those.

He kind of wanted to keep the hair just because Hydra used to shave it off, but…He drew a hand thoughtfully over the hair on his chin. That Bucky Barnes in the museum, he didn't have a beard either. Maybe that's why he was having trouble feeling like him. Maybe if he looked more like him, it might be easier to be him. He didn't think he was ready to cut his hair yet—just the thought of something sharp so close to his head but just out of his line of vision twisted a knot in his stomach, and the long hair was good for hiding behind and keeping people from seeing his face, but…Yeah. Yeah, he could try the beard.

"Can I try?" he asked Steve. He wasn't quite sure how to do it himself, but Steve could show him how.

"Sure," Steve said. He handed him a razor—Bucky was pleased to see it wasn't just a naked blade—and he got some shaving cream, and he walked Bucky through the process. He explained each step, but he waited until Bucky asked, not just assuming he didn't know anything (though Bucky did ask a lot of questions), and Bucky appreciated that too. Once he got going, his hands seemed to remember this action too. He was able to finish without any help from Steve, and the man looking back at him from the mirror when he was done _did_ look more like Bucky Barnes.

"Good job," Steve said, and he sounded proud, and Bucky smiled. It felt good to do something right.

They went back to Bucky's room, and Steve pulled a pair of boxers and some pants that tied at the waist out of the pile of clothes he'd brought in earlier. "Here," he said, holding them out. "I think these should fit you best." Bucky knew he was skinny, and the tie should help the pants stay up. "Which shirt do you want?" Steve asked.

Bucky wondered, given that Steve had brought him so many clothes, if Steve knew how helpful it was that he had picked some of them out so that Bucky only had to choose one thing. He considered the shirts Steve had laid out on the bed, running his hand over each of them. Most of them were really soft. He liked soft things. Hydra never let him wear soft clothes.

"Can I wear this one?" he asked, his fingers curling in the dark blue material of the softest one. It did not escape his notice that there was a Captain America shield on the front of it, and maybe it was silly, but that only made him want to wear it more. It was like…Yeah, it was just a picture of the shield, but it was still protecting him like the real one could. It reminded him that Steve was looking after him now. That he was safe.

"Sure," Steve said with a smile. He handed Bucky the clothes and left him to get dressed.

Bucky slipped into the clothes, and they were warm and clean and soft and Bucky couldn't remember having something so nice wrapped around him in his whole life. He felt—though he didn't remember the word—cozy, and he kind of wanted to just lay down on the bed (his bed, he had a bed) and snuggle into the blankets and nice soft clothes and fall asleep.

But Sam had food for dinner, and he _was_ hungry. He should go out and eat first. He was really hungry, actually.

He walked back into the kitchen, enjoying the feel of the fuzzy carpet under his bare feet. Steve and Sam were waiting for him, although Sam was already eating. Steve offered him a hairbrush, and Bucky thought he remembered those, although if the way Steve was wincing as he watched him use it was any indication, he was doing something wrong.

"Can I…" Steve began. "Can I do that for you? That just, it looks like it hurts."

Bucky nodded and handed him the brush, and he followed the hand Steve gestured with and sat down on the chair in front of him. He closed his eyes, tensing at first as he felt Steve's hands coming at his head, but then he started to relax. Steve was being very careful, working through the knots and snarls gently, which did actually feel much better than the way Bucky had just been yanking the brush through his hair. He paid attention to how Steve was doing it so he could do it that way next time.

Back in the kitchen, Sam started pulling lots of little white boxes out of the oven where he'd put them to warm them up while they'd been brushing Bucky's hair. Bucky's eyes went wide as he did so—he just kept pulling boxes out, and that was a lot of food.

Sam started explaining what all of it was, and Bucky felt like he should be paying attention, but none of it meant anything. Evidently, that showed on his face, so Sam stopped talking, picked up a box and held it out. "Here," he said. "Why don't you just start with this one? Cashew chicken. Hard to go wrong."

Bucky accepted the box and peered into the top. There were little bits of meat and green and orange vegetables and some curved little nuts, all covered in a brown sauce. "How much of it should I eat?" he wondered when Sam didn't specify that.

"However much you want," Sam said. "You don't like it, you can put it back. If you like it, you can eat the whole box."

"Oh, um, alright." That was new. On his own, there had just never been enough to eat anyway, but even with Hydra, there had been diets and limits and rules. He took a tentative bite, surprised at the multitude of flavors that exploded on his tongue. This was delicious! He did eat the whole box, and when it was gone and he was still hungry but he wasn't sure if he was allowed to ask for any more, Steve slid over a box with spicy beef and noodles and Sam pointed out a plate with something called spring rolls and several little bowls of sauces.

He didn't talk much as he ate. Steve or Sam would occasionally ask him a question, but mostly he just ate and listened to them talk. They talked about a game Steve had lost to someone named Clint, and about what sort of groceries they needed to get at the store, and about a girl at work that Sam thought was cute. It was domestic and normal and nice to listen to.

All the food was gone when they were done, and Bucky felt full for the first time in a very long time. It had all been good and Bucky appreciated that they shared it with him, and he felt like he should say something. "I did like it," he told Sam. Sam had shared his food and shown him something new and been nice about it. "Thank you."

The look on Sam's face told him he hadn't been expecting that, but he smiled, so Bucky didn't think he'd done anything wrong. "Sure thing, man," Sam replied.

They were all ready for bed not too much later, and for the first time in a very long time, Bucky was looking forward to sleeping. He didn't know what kind of dreams he would have, but he would be somewhere safe if they woke him. He got to sleep somewhere warm and soft and all his own, not in the painful dark of the cryo-tube. He had a bed. He had a room. He was a person with a home and a family.

Steve said if he needed anything at all, it was okay if Bucky came and woke him up, and Bucky nodded and thanked him because he knew he meant it. He looked at Steve for a long minute, and that little something deep inside of him that knew how to read Steve knew what that face meant. "Don't worry, Steve, I'll be here in the morning," he told him. He wasn't offended that Steve was worried—Steve had been looking for him for a long time, and Bucky didn't exactly have the best track record for staying in one place. But he was done with that now. He wasn't going to run anymore. This was where he wanted to be.

Something inside him smiled when Steve blushed and Bucky knew he'd been right. Steve said goodnight and went to his room, and Bucky opened the green notebook and wrote down what he'd remembered about his sister before it went away, then turned off the light and crawled into bed. It was every bit as warm and soft and wonderful as he'd been hoping. He almost wondered if his head was just messed up again, if he was just imagining things, but the things he would see when Hydra was digging around in his head were never this nice, or safe, or good. This was real. Steve was real. Bucky had his brother back. And Bucky was really here. It had taken a long time—such a long time—but Bucky was back where he was supposed to be.

Bucky was finally home.

* * *


	23. All's Fair In Love And War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, after a couple of heavier chapters with Bucky coming home, it felt like it was time for some lighter moments. This one's mostly Steve hanging out with little baby Spider Man, though there's a brief intro from Bucky's POV. The rest of the team will be putting in an appearance, including Wanda, T'Challa and Thor, who I don't think have shown up yet. Let's see some of the stuff the Avengers get up to on a day off.

* * *

The corridor was still, the quiet hum of the air vents the only sound. But the world's deadliest assassin had gotten that name for a reason, and Bucky's sharply honed senses caught the soft shifting of shoes on the carpet, the quick flicker of shadows as a door opened and closed silently. He smiled. His target was good. But he was better.

He counted nearly imperceptible steps, held his breath as his target passed by, then slid from his perch and landed softly on his toes and fingertips, silent as his shadow. He slunk forward unnoticed, his target's eyes still watching the door, and Bucky's smile got a little bit wider. The target had checked his six, but he wasn't covering it—he was expecting the attack to come from the door, and that was his fatal mistake.

Nimbly as a cat and just as quiet, Bucky closed the distance between them and raised his weapon. He was close enough he could have reached out and touched him, but he just allowed himself a small grin of victory and tightened his finger on the trigger.

_Thwap!_

"Ow!" Sam cried, jumping up and spinning around, but it was too late. "Aw, man," he groaned, catching sight of Bucky and swiping a hand across the back of his head, pulling away a bright green Nerf dart. "Seriously?" he complained. "You're really gonna shoot me from eight inches away?"

"I had to get close. The accuracy on these things is terrible," Bucky said, gesturing with the plastic gun in his hand. "And if you're not gonna watch your six, you're just _asking_ to get shot in the back of the head."

"I wasn't watching my six because there is literally ten feet of hallway and an empty bathroom back there. And I already checked the bathroom," Sam replied.

Bucky shrugged and grinned. "Not well enough. Now, come on, hand it over, I've got places to be."

Sam sighed and handed Bucky his supply of foam darts and his own gun, eyeing the multiple guns already strapped to his back. "Dude, how much of my team have you taken out?"

"About half of 'em," Bucky smirked. He checked Sam's gun, decided he liked it better than the one he was carrying, and slung his old one over his shoulder. He looked up at Sam and cocked an eyebrow. "You got any food?"

"Nowhere in the rules does it say you get my ammo _and_ my snacks," Sam said, backing away.

"You're dead, I get to go through your stuff."

Sam sighed, but pulled a granola bar out of his pocket and tossed it to Bucky. "Happy?"

Bucky inspected the bar and tossed it back. "I want one of the good ones."

Sam narrowed his eyes, but pulled out another bar and handed it over. This one had little pieces of dried fruit and chocolate chips in it. "Much better," Bucky said with a smile. He tore the wrapper off and took a bite. "Thanks," he said, raising the half-eaten bar in a toast and heading through the doorway Sam had been watching. He heard Sam sigh behind him. Bucky grinned. Wanda, Rhodes and Banner were down. And now Sam. Only two more to go.

* * *

Steve looked around the 38th floor kitchen with a sigh. It was his team's home base and was where the 'deceased' team members came to wait out the end of the round. Based on the number of people sitting around the table eating popcorn, his team had a hell of a mortality rate.

"You guys are all out already?" Steve asked.

"Bucky. Right between the eyes," Wanda said, tapping the bridge of her nose before grabbing another handful of popcorn.

"Bucky," Bruce agreed. "Got me in the ear," he complained, digging his finger into his ear as if he could still feel the dart.

"They doubled down on me," Rhodes groused. "Tony got me in the chest at the same time Barnes got me in the back of the head."

"He's extra-dead," Wanda pointed out.

Steve sighed, perking up a little when Sam came in, then slumping back down when noticed his lack of a weapon.

"Bucky get you too?" Bruce asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Yeah," Sam sighed, dropping into one of the chairs. "Romanoff already got me in the leg, but I got away, and then Barnes gets me in the back of the head." He sighed, rubbing the back of his head in irritation. "Freaking Russian assassins."

"What happened guys?" Steve asked. No matter how they split for these games, they were usually pretty evenly matched. He didn't understand how so much of his team had gone down so quickly this time.

"Barnes is a ghost, is what happened," Sam complained. "He was eight inches away from the back of my head when he got me."

"Bucky's always like that when we play," Steve pointed out.

"Yeah, but he's usually on my team," Sam countered.

That was a fair point. Steve sighed again. "Is it seriously just me against all six of them now?"

"Well, Thor's down, thanks to some excellent shooting from Wanda," Bruce said. "And did somebody get Barton? I haven't seen him in a while."

"I got him," Sam said. "Right before Nat got me in the leg."

"Tony's down an arm," Rhodes added. "I managed to do that much before he got me."

"So, it's me against four, then," Steve sighed. "Great."

"Three and a half," Rhodes corrected. "Tony's shooting lefty now."

"And it's not just you, Sir! I'm here!" Peter exclaimed, bursting through the doorway. "Sorry I'm late. I heard you call us back, but I was hiding from the Black Widow. Wow, is everybody else out already?" he asked, looking around the table.

"It's you and me, kid," Steve said. He wasn't entirely sure how the fifteen-year-old had survived what four official Avengers had not, but he was glad to have him.

"So, what's our plan?" Peter asked, hopping up on the counter and leaning forward eagerly.

"Well, we're up against Tony, Nat, T'Challa and Bucky," Steve explained.

Peter grimaced. "That's all the sneaky ones." Steve heard Sam chuckle at that.

"All but Tony," Rhodes cut in. "He's not so much with the stealth. Although, he _is_ lot quieter when he's not in the suit."

"Anyway," Steve continued. "Our problem seems to be that we keep getting snuck up on. They're finding us before we're finding them."

Peter nodded thoughtfully.

"And if we could do something about Bucky, we might still have a shot at this," Steve finished. T'Challa and Nat were the definition of stealthy, but Bucky was something there wasn't even a word for yet. If he was trying to hide, it was like he ceased to exist in the physical realm. He looked over at Peter. "Ideas?" The kid wasn't much of a tactician, but Steve liked to give him every opportunity he could to strategize. It was just a game, but it was good practice for missions he _did_ get to go on, and he wanted to make sure Peter could take care of himself.

Peter's eyebrows furrowed and he bit his lip thoughtfully. "So, Bucky's our biggest threat, but we can't find him to take him down…" He looked back up, having clearly just had a brainwave. "What we need is some way to track him."

"That is a good idea," Steve allowed, wanting to give credit where credit was due. If they were in an actual fight, that would be the kind of thinking they needed. "But we're not allowed to use J.A.R.V.I.S., remember?"

"No, I know that. I wasn't saying we should cheat or anything," Peter said quickly, like he was worried Steve might have thought that's what he was saying. "I was thinking more like a…metal detector."

Steve stared at him for a second. Forget what he'd thought about the kid not being a tactician, that was _brilliant_. "Peter, you're a genius," he said.

"Really?" Peter beamed, clearly pleased.

"I don't think you're the smartest Avenger anymore, Doc," Rhodes said, looking over at Bruce.

"I will gladly give up the title," Bruce said, nodding at Peter in approval.

Peter was smiling, though his face was so red Steve half-expected him to burst into flames.

"I like the way you think, kid," Wanda said. "But where are you going to get a metal detector? The labs are all on the lower levels and anything below floor Thirty-Two is out of bounds."

Technically, the 'dead' weren't supposed to help with strategies, but she brought up a good point.

"Well, sure," Peter said with a shrug. "But the roof's not."

Steve's smile returned, seeing where Peter was going.

"The Quinjet's on the roof, and I could MacGyver something up easy out of what's in there," Peter explained.

"Steve, can we adopt him?" Sam asked.

Steve looped an arm over Peter's shoulders. "Peter, that is a brilliant idea. Whoa, whoa, wait," he added, tightening his grip as Peter made to hop off the counter and run to the door. "We've got thirteen floors between us and the roof," he reminded him. So maybe there was still a little tactical stuff to work on. "We've got to get up there first."

"Oh, yeah."

They decided to go up through the living quarters. Peter had suggested the air ducts as a way to travel without anyone sneaking up behind them, but Steve didn't think he'd be anywhere close to stealthy in a tight space like that. If he could even get in past his shoulders to start with.

They stuck close to the walls, and Steve was proud of Peter for remembering how to check corners without being seen. He and Bucky had gone over that with him after he kept taking nerf darts to the eye when he was looking around corners. A check well below eye-level was less likely to be noticed, and even if you were working with people who knew the trick, if you were fast enough you could usually get away with it. They'd been worried that Peter would translate that dangerous behavior into a mission one day and end up getting shot in the face with a real bullet. Peter had pointed out that on a real mission, he'd probably be on the ceiling, and if people didn't think to look below eye-level, they probably wouldn't look that high above it either—which was fair enough, but powers were off-limits in the game and they'd both wanted him to learn anyway.

They had a narrow escape in the 47th floor kitchen when both Nat and T'Challa walked in. Steve caught their reflections in the fridge, grabbed Peter up off the floor and clamped a hand over his mouth and spun around the corner. To Peter's credit, he didn't make any surprised noises. As Nat and T'Challa's voices got closer, Steve backed quickly and quietly into the pantry. Since Steve's hands were full, Peter held his gun ready as they both watched the door, listening to the conversation outside. Since there were only two of them left, the other team had decided to coordinate their search and sweep the building, T'Challa and Nat here on the east side, Bucky and Tony on the west. They were working their way down, so once they got clear of this floor, they should be alright.

Nat and T'Challa passed the pantry and Steve and Peter both held their breath. Steve saw the shadows of feet moving closer to the door and tightened his grip briefly on Peter, nodding at the door handle. Peter lowered his gun and reached down and grabbed the handle, holding it firm. It jiggled as someone tested it from the outside.

"Locked," Nat said.

"You take the living room; I'll sweep past the bathrooms and we'll meet at the stairs," T'Challa said.

They moved away, and Steve listened until he couldn't hear footsteps anymore. He waited a little longer, just to be safe, then took his hand off Peter's mouth and eased the pantry door open.

"Are we good?" Peter asked.

"I think so," Steve replied, scanning the kitchen and all the entrances. "We're still gonna want to be careful going upstairs, though." Just because Bucky and Tony were _supposed_ to be on the other side of the building, it was no reason to be careless.

"Sure," Peter agreed. "Bucky's fast, he might sneak back up on us. Um, could you put me down now?"

Steve set Peter back on the floor and they continued on their way. "You know, you're not really supposed to hum when you're trying to be stealthy," Steve pointed out as they cleared another stairwell. Peter frowned, and Steve smiled and added, "Even if it's the Mission: Impossible theme song."

Peter grinned and blushed a little but quit humming.

They made it to the last stairwell, but getting from there onto the roof was going to be the biggest danger. With all the wind up on the roof, there was just no way to open that door quietly. Steve sent Peter on up and watched the bottom of the stairwell while the kid went through and checked the roof. It was hard to hear anything over the sound of the wind above him, but Steve caught Peter's soft whistle that meant the roof was clear and hurried up after him.

"How long do you think this will take?" Steve asked as they walked towards the Quinjet.

Peter frowned thoughtfully. "Um…If I can find everything I need, maybe fifteen minutes? It may take longer if I have to dig through everything."

Steve nodded, then motioned for him to go on up the ramp. He parked himself at the bottom, in the shadow of the jet but still with good visibility. If anyone came up here after them, they wouldn't both want to be stuck inside the jet with nowhere to run.

"Um," Peter said, sticking his head back out of the jet. "Mr. Captain America, Sir?" Steve shook his head. He'd finally managed to convince Peter that it was okay to call him Steve, but he had a tendency to lapse back into that awkward formality on missions. And fake missions too, apparently.

"Yeah?" Steve asked.

"I can't open any of the compartments while the jet is powered down. Can you come turn it on?"

Steve nodded and hurried up the ramp, placing his hand on the pad to wake the ship up. Evidently, Tony hadn't keyed the kid into the system yet. Which, alright, he couldn't drive a car, so it was fair enough that he wouldn't be able to fly a jet. He'd mention it to Tony later, though. If Peter was on an actual mission and needed access to J.A.R.V.I.S. or the medkit or something, he'd need to be able to at least turn the thing on.

Back outside, Steve listened to Peter digging through equipment inside, muttering to himself and occasionally singing little snatches of a song Steve was pretty sure was called 'Despacito'. Steve was suddenly reminded of his Howling Commando days—Gabe always used to talk himself when he was fixing the radio.

After about twenty minutes, Steve poked his head back up into the jet. "Status report, Mr. Scott?"

Peter smiled with that surprised little grin he always had when Steve or Bucky made a pop culture reference. "I'm a miracle worker, Captain," he replied in a truly terrible Scottish accent. He held up something that looked more like a hair dryer than it did anything else and smiled. "Let's do it."

Steve powered the ship back down and they started walking back to the stairs. "How does it work?" he asked.

"Okay, so, it shows up on my phone right here, see?" Peter said, holding up the device. He had attached his phone to the handle, and the screen was currently showing a map of the Tower. "It's not…" Peter started hesitantly. "It's not cheating, is it? This isn't J.A.R.V.I.S.—I already had schematics of the building on my phone."

"Sounds fine to me," Steve said.

"Okay," Peter said, emboldened. "So, the range is kind of limited, but here's the stairs going inside, see?" He pointed at the screen. "Anything metal that's big enough will show up as a blue dot. So, back here behind us, that's the jet." He swung the scanner around and pointed at a stationary dot. "And see, if we point it down the stairs…" He directed it at the stairwell and waved it around a little. "See? There's no metal right around the stairs, but over here is another spot—that's the elevator." The elevator was marked as another stationary dot.

Peter looked up at him apologetically. "I did tweak it to tune out things like the metal supports in the building, or, like, handrails and things so it didn't get confusing, but it would have taken a long time to get it to where it didn't read the big appliances and stuff."

Steve clapped him on the shoulder. "Peter, this is great."

Peter smiled warmly.

They crept down the stairs, still wary of other opponents that wouldn't show up on Peter's scanner. "Actually," Peter said quietly. "It's only Black Widow that won't show up. I, uh, I _did_ get it to look for vibranium, which covers both Bucky's hand _and_ T'Challa's Panther necklace. And I got it to look for titanium too, and I know Mr. Stark isn't wearing his suit or anything, but he always has that watch on that does the Iron Man thing around his hand."

Steve grinned. "I've said it before, but, kid, you're a genius," he said proudly.

Peter blushed and smiled and stammered a little bit, and Steve ruffled his hair and they started walking again.

They cleared three floors before the detector got a hit. "Someone's coming, someone's coming!" Peter hissed, slapping at Steve's arm and pointing at the screen. Steve looked down to see a little blue dot moving slowly in their direction. Crouching down until his face was inches from the floor, Steve peeked around the corner, then darted his head back quickly.

"T'Challa," he whispered.

Peter nodded. He set the detector down gently on the floor and readied his gun. He darted his eyes back to the screen. "He's slowing down," he whispered.

Steve nodded. Maybe T'Challa had picked up on their presence, maybe he hadn't, but either way, it was a long hallway and definitely a place where you'd want to be cautious. Straining to listen, Steve could just catch the soft sounds of his feet on the tile—T'Challa definitely lived up to his cat-like alter ego. If Steve hadn't known he was out there, he wouldn't have heard a thing. And right now he was moving slow and too far away to hit. Bucky frequently complained about the accuracy of these nerf guns, and he was right—Steve wasn't going to be able to hit T'Challa until he was a lot closer.

Steve pulled his eyes away from the corner he was watching when he felt Peter tapping his side. He looked back. "Throw me," Peter whispered.

"What?"

"I'm really light, and you're really strong. Just pick me up and chuck me down the hall, and I'll get him while I'm in the air. He'll never see that coming."

Steve opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. That actually wasn't a bad idea, providing Peter could aim well enough. It wouldn't hurt him, at any rate. The kid flew around on his spiderwebs and landed rough all the time—he could handle a six-foot drop to the tile. And if he missed, well, it would sure as hell distract T'Challa, and Steve could run out and get close enough for a good shot.

"Okay," he said, and Peter grinned. Steve set down his gun and picked Peter up, listened again to gauge where T'Challa was, then spun around the corner and hurled Peter into the air.

"YEET!" Peter yelled as he flew, and T'Challa looked up in surprise, clearly not having expected an attack of that nature. He was quick on the uptake, though, and his gun was up and ready to fire when his eyes caught Steve barreling towards him. His gun wavered between Peter and Steve in a split second of indecision, and then both Peter and Steve were firing and the king of Wakanda flinched as multiple little foam darts battered him in the face.

Peter hit the ground and rolled, springing to his feet. Steve kept his gun at the ready in case T'Challa hadn't been alone, but no further attacks seemed to be forthcoming. T'Challa laughed, fishing down inside his shirt for a dart that had fallen down his collar.

"Oh, very nice," he said approvingly. "Very nicely done. I can honestly say I didn't see that coming."

"Really?" Peter asked excitedly.

"An excellent attack, Spider Boy," he confirmed, still smiling. "I shall have to remember that one for the future. Although, I'm not sure which one of you actually made the fatal shot—who gets the gun?" he asked, holding out his weapon.

"Ooh, can I—I mean, if you want it, Sir, you can have it," Peter said, reaching out eagerly for the gun and then quickly pulling his hand back and nodding at Steve.

"Go ahead and take it," Steve said. He'd gotten a pretty good feel for the one he had. T'Challa handed Peter the gun and gave them both a little salute before turning and heading back to his team's home base, still chuckling. Peter slung his old gun over his shoulder, went to retrieve the detector, and they started moving again.

"One down, three to go," Peter said, grinning.

"Yep," Steve nodded. "And nice job with that one, by the way." He'd been impressed with the kid's flexibility and ability to twist and aim in the air. But then, flying around as much as he did, he'd have to have a pretty good handle on it. "Although," he added. "What was that you yelled when I threw you?"

"Huh? Oh, I said 'yeet'. You say it when you throw something. Like, yeet!" He chucked one of his foam darts out in front of him. "Or it can mean to actually throw something," he continued, bending down to scoop up the dart. "Like, you yeeted me down the hall."

"Oh," Steve said. "Okay. Thanks." More slang—Peter had been teaching him pieces of it for a while, and seemed delighted when he used it. Tony, not so much. Steve filed that one away so he could use it in front of him later.

They came across Tony and Nat a couple floors down. Peter picked up another blip of metal on his detector, and as they slowed down and listened carefully, they could hear Tony talking softly. No other signals were coming through on the detector, so it had to be Nat.

"I can't get T'Challa on the comms," Tony was saying.

"Steve must've gotten him," Nat replied.

Peter looked offended that Nat evidently didn't consider him a threat, and Steve couldn't help smiling at that.

"We should probably sweep a couple of levels up," Nat continued. "He and I were coming back up after we didn't find them on the lower levels and we split at the stairs."

"Barnes, you still on the roof?" Tony asked. Steve caught the slight buzz of his radio in response. "T'Challa's down. Romanoff and I are on forty-two and we think they're somewhere between us. You come down and we'll come up and we'll see if we can't catch 'em in the middle."

Steve risked a look around the corner. They were heading for the stairs, moving away from them. "Okay," he whispered to Peter. "They're sticking together, heading for the stairs. Do you think you can get down to the other end of the hall without being seen?"

"And catch 'em between us? Yes, Sir," Peter nodded. "Gimme ten seconds."

Steve nodded. "Signal me when you're ready," he said, tapping his earpiece.

Peter nodded and vanished into the nearest room. Steve imagined he was going out the window and hopping across a few balconies to get up ahead of them.

Steve peered around the corner again. Tony and Nat were moving slowly, weapons ready and checking each room as they went. Nat was in front, which meant she'd be the one facing Peter.

"Ready, Sir," came a soft voice in his ear.

"Okay," Steve confirmed. "Nat's closest to you, so she's yours. Stay as quiet as you can. Yelling won't distract her, it'll only help her find your position faster."

"Got it," Peter said.

"On three," Steve told him. "One, two, three!"

Steve flung himself around the corner, running as fast and as quiet as he could to get in range. He was vaguely aware of a flash of color down at Peter's end of the hall as he rolled to avoid a barrage of little purple darts that came from Tony's gun, responding with a volley of his own before springing back up.

Tony was glaring down at the two blue darts stuck to his shirt. "Fine, you got me," he huffed. "But I would've gotten you too if I wasn't shooting left-handed," he added, pointing with his gun at Steve.

"Probably," Steve agreed. He'd felt one of the darts brush his ear.

"Kid's not a bad shot either," Nat said, handing over the dart stuck to her stomach. "But," she added, pointing back at him. "You want to remember that a gut shot isn't always instantaneously fatal. I could still shoot, and you came out too quick."

Peter was sitting on the floor with a cluster of darts attached to his knee. "How long should I have waited?" he asked.

Nat shrugged. "It's hard to say with wounds like that. Could be a few minutes. Your best bet would've been to put another couple of shots into me once you saw I was down."

Peter nodded.

"Why aren't you wearing a shirt?" Steve asked him. He'd been wearing one last time he'd seen him, which was all of forty seconds ago.

"Oh, well, I figured if I just came out, she would shoot me before I got her," Peter explained, nodding at Natasha. "And you said yelling wouldn't distract her, so I balled up my shirt and threw it so there'd be two things for her to look at."

"And that _was_ a good idea," Nat told him.

Steve collected their newly-won weapons and ammo as Tony and Nat set off, and handed Peter his shirt and the metal detector.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Peter said glumly. "I didn't think about her still being able to shoot after I got her."

"She did have a good point," Steve allowed. "But it's okay."

"No," Peter protested. "But you're all on your own now, and if this was a real mission—"

"Peter," Steve said, crouching down next to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. The kid looked so dejected that Steve couldn't help a fond smile. "You're not letting anybody down by getting hit, here or on a real mission. That kind of stuff happens, which is why we go out in teams—so we can watch each other's backs. I'm glad you learned this lesson here where it's safe, instead of out in a real fight. And if this was a real fight…" He turned around and pulled Peter up onto his back, then stood up. "I'd do exactly what I'm doing now. You wouldn't get left behind. And…" He bent down and picked up Peter's gun, handing it back to him. "I'm not on my own either. You're down a leg, but you're still in this fight."

He turned his head back and saw Peter smile. "Yes, Sir," he said. He held up the metal detector. "Let's do it."

They continued their journey, moving up to meet Bucky as he came down. "He's right above us," Peter whispered after they'd gone up a floor. He'd been swinging the device in a wide arc from his perch on Steve's back and was currently pointing it straight up at the ceiling. "Going that way," he added, pointing in the direction of the stairs.

"Okay," Steve said. "Let's meet him in the stairwell." He hurried to the stairway, Peter keeping the detector trained on the ceiling.

"Do we just wait for him at the bottom?" Peter asked when they got there.

"No," Steve said. "He'll be checking his entrances. We don't want to be where he can see us." He considered the stairwell. The stairs were solid, so hiding underneath them wouldn't allow for a shot at Bucky, and it would just leave them trapped if they were spotted. He scanned the upper part of the room and grinned. "You still want to go in the air vent?"

Bucky didn't have the advantage of knowing where his opponents were that they did, so he wasn't hurrying toward the stairs. They had a little time, though they had to move fast. Steve hopped up on the handrails of the stairs, leaning out somewhat precariously to put Peter within reach of the grating over the opening in the vent. Peter handed to the grating down to Steve, then hoisted himself up inside. Steve handed up a gun, then hopped down and set the grating somewhere out of the way before ducking under the stairs. It still wasn't an ideal space, but without Peter on his back, he could move freely enough to avoid getting trapped.

He watched the detector until Bucky was right at the door, then set it down. The shifting of the light on the opposite wall was the only indication that the door was opening. Bucky was equally as silent coming down the stairs—there was no sound, just a shadow that Steve would have missed if he hadn't been looking for it.

When Bucky was halfway down, Steve swung out from underneath the stairs, firing as he went. Bucky was fast, spinning out of the way and into the air, avoiding every shot. Steve was already rolling, and he felt one of Bucky's darts catch him in the ankle, but he got out of the way of anything more deadly. He kept rolling, drawing Bucky underneath the vent, then grinned at a soft _thwap_! and Bucky stopping dead. A yellow dart was nestled in his hair.

"Nice shot, Peter!" Steve declared.

Bucky looked up in the direction the dart had come from. Peter's smiling face was beaming down through the hole in the vent, and Bucky laughed. "Oh, good move, kid!" he said. He shot a mock glare at Steve. "Sneaky. Although, what have I told you about using yourself as bait?"

"When do I ever listen to you?" Steve smirked, and Bucky laughed again.

Peter swung himself down to the floor. "Did we just win?" he asked.

"We did," Steve confirmed.

Peter laughed delightedly. "We won! Ha!" He punched the air victoriously. "I never win!"

"Finally remembered how to check your corners, huh?" Bucky said with a smile.

Both teams gathered back in one of the kitchens for snacks and sodas. "Congratulations to our brave Captain and the Spider-Boy!" Thor declared. "To come from near-defeat and emerge triumphant is a well-won victory indeed!"

"How did you do it?" Nat wondered. "I mean, don't get me wrong, there was some good shooting there, but we had you outnumbered."

"Boy Genius is how they did it," Sam said proudly, pounding Peter on the back.

"Oh, well…" Peter said, blushing and looking down at the floor.

"Come, my friend," T'Challa prompted. "You cannot leave it at that. What was your plan?"

Peter looked like he was about to collapse under all the attention, so Steve took over. "Well, our problem was that someone kept sneaking up on our teammates and taking them out." He paused here while the other team cheered for Bucky and clapped him on the back. "So, Peter came up with this idea to help even the playing field a little bit."

"What'd you do, kid?" Bucky asked, turning in his chair to look at him curiously.

Peter looked at Steve, but Steve nodded for him to take over. "Well," Peter began a little shyly. "I, uh, I figured our best way not to get snuck up on by you was to know you were coming, so I went up and got some stuff out of the Quinjet and, well, I, uh, I built a metal detector."

The room was quiet for a solid five seconds before T'Challa barked out a laugh that made them all jump. Clint and Nat were laughing too, although Tony was fuming. Bucky was laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

"I don't know if you can even do that, kid, but that was amazing!" Clint declared.

"No, no, you _can't_ do that," Tony argued. "Victory canceled. Your team didn't win."

"I believe they did, Sir," came J.A.R.V.I.S.'s voice from the ceiling.

"No, that's cheating!" Tony argued.

"I'm afraid not, Sir," the A.I. said calmly. "Following the incident with the pineapple, I have monitored these games quite closely. Captain Rogers and Mr. Parker were well within the stated rules of the game."

Peter beamed. Bucky was still laughing.

"Well, some of those rules may be changing before next time," Tony huffed.

Bucky stood up, looping an arm over Peter's shoulders and wiping tears from his eyes. "Peter Parker, I don't know if I have ever been so proud. I have nothing left to teach you."

Peter grinned and blushed redder than Nat's hair. "Well, it wasn't all just me," he said. "Capt—I mean, Steve did a lot of it too."

"We make a good team, Peter," Steve told him with a smile.

"So, walk us through it," Clint said.

They took turns explaining what they'd done after deciding to build the metal detector, getting a groan from Nat and T'Challa when they realized they'd missed them in the kitchen. They had to stop Peter from describing every detail of constructing the detector, although Bruce wanted to hear more about it later.

"And, then," Peter said. "We got a blip on the screen, and Steve looked and saw that T'Challa was coming, and I had this idea—"

Steve cut in, seeing a chance to test Tony's reaction to his new vocabulary. "We thought we'd attack him on two fronts, so I picked him up and yeeted him down the hall at T'Challa."

A delighted grin lit up Peter's face. Tony looked horrified. "What did you just say?"

"Yeet," Steve said calmly. "You know, it means—"

"I know what it means," Tony said. "But you're ninety-eight years old; _you_ should not know what it means."

"What does it mean?" Thor asked curiously.

"I don't know," Bucky said. "But it's probably a word from one of those dank memes, right?" he asked with a little smirk. Peter had been teaching him stuff too.

"Yeah," Peter said happily. "It—"

"Parker, what did you do?" Tony demanded.

"Kid's just trying to keep us up to date," Steve said, sliding a protective arm around Peter and pulling him away from Tony. "Don't be so salty about it," he adding, tossing in another one with a grin.

"Yeah," Bucky said, stepping around to Peter's other side. "We're just trying to stay relevant here. What, you want people to think we're basic?" he asked. Peter snorted.

"You stop that and you stop it now," Tony said, pointing a warning finger at the two of them.

"For once, I'm with Stark on this," Sam put in.

"IDK what to tell you, fam," Steve said with a theatrical shrug. "We're just trying to keep up with the twenty-first century."

"And learning stuff like that from Peter is pretty lit," Bucky added.

Tony growled and left the room looking like he was ready to tear his hair out, and Sam arched an unimpressed eyebrow. "You done?"

Steve looked at Bucky, who nodded. "Yeah," Steve said. "That's all I've got."

"I didn't understand most of what you just said," Rhodey said above the laughter echoing around the room. "But please do that again sometime."

"I still don't understand," Thor insisted. "What does 'yeet' mean?"

"Oh, Mr. Thor," Peter said excitedly. "It's the _perfect_ word for you…"

* * *


	24. Just Like Ma Used To Make

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, I did promise a Christmas chapter at some point, but this is only kind of it. It's more...Christmas adjacent. I have something else in mind, and there will be a real Christmas chapter later, but there was a slow day at work, and the muse decided she wanted Bucky to make cookies, so here we are. Super sweet and fluffy and Bucky and Sam eating cookies in the kitchen. This one happens around the same time as the Ohana chapter with Nat. Probably a little bit afterwards. Enjoy!

* * *

Sam woke up and got dressed, ready to head out for his morning run. He stepped into the kitchen to fill up his water bottle and then stopped short, flipping on the light to make sure he was seeing what he thought he saw. The kitchen looked like a war zone. Drawers and cabinets hung open, silverware and dishes were scattered across the counters and floor, there were eggshells, splashes of milk and smears of something doughy and sticky on every surface, and Sam was pretty sure a bag of flour had exploded in the middle of the room.

He stepped into the middle of the mess cautiously, kicking an eggshell out of the way. What the hell had happened in here? He craned his neck back to look into the hallway. Bucky's door was open. "Barnes?" he asked carefully. Bucky's flashbacks usually didn't tend towards destruction unless they were really bad ones, and Sam hated to think what could have prompted something on this scale. Although, the mess _did_ seem to be contained to just the kitchen, which showed an odd sense of boundary for such a destructive flashback, and seemed like a weird thing to lash out against in the first place. "Bucky?" he said a little louder when he didn't get a response. He really hoped whatever the flashback was was over now, and that Bucky wasn't going to appear out of nowhere and try to attack him with a pair of barbeque tongs or something. Should he go wake up Steve?

"Nnh!" There was a sharp intake of air and a snort, and Bucky sat up abruptly on the couch. He blinked sleepily into the light, then smiled when he saw Sam. "Sam!" Okay, that was good. No death by kitchen utensils this morning.

"Hey, man, what…" Sam trailed off. Bucky looked like he was alright, but Sam thought it would be better to tread carefully. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Bucky said, running a hand over his hair in an attempt to smooth it back down. "I think I fell asleep."

"You did, yeah," Sam said, nodding at the imprint the couch had left on his face. "What, uh, what happened?"

Bucky's eyes finally landed on the kitchen. "Oh! Yeah. Sorry about the mess." He stood up, and the giant hoodie of Steve's that he usually wore to sleep in had a streak of the same doughy substance across the front of it that the freezer did. "I'll clean it up. But, Sam…" He was grinning broadly and Sam relaxed a little bit. That was the smile he got when he remembered something, and Sam still wasn't sure what that had to do with his kitchen, but it was a good thing. "Sam, I remembered," he said happily.

"That's great, man," Sam said, genuinely happy for him, even if he didn't know what for yet. "What did you remember?"

"This," Bucky said excitedly, picking up a plastic container that had been sitting on the couch. He rounded the couch and held the container out across the counter proudly. "Here. Try one."

Sam looked inside at the collection of round, golden-brown cookies. "You made cookies?" Sam asked, arching a curious eyebrow.

"Yeah," Bucky said. He shook the container, making the cookies jump. "Eat one."

"Um, okay." He picked one up and took a small, cautious bite. "Wow," he said, impressed. "These are really good!"

Bucky beamed, hugging the container happily to his chest. "Thanks." He smiled down at the cookies, and then back up at Sam. "I made them, Sam. I remembered how all on my own."

"I'm glad," Sam said, swallowing down the last of what was, quite frankly, one of the best cinnamon-sugar cookies he'd ever eaten. "I gotta ask, though. What prompted this early morning baking session?" Bucky's sleep schedule was still all over the place, and with the trouble he often had sleeping, he wasn't much of an early riser.

"I had this dream," Bucky said, leaning back against the back of the couch. "It's almost Christmas, you know, and me and Steve have been talking a lot about Christmas and the kind of stuff we would do, and I'm not…I'm not remembering it too well. But I had this dream, and there was this smell. I dreamed about the way these cookies smelled, and at Christmas time, my ma would make these, and the whole apartment would smell just like this." He nodded down at the cookies he was still holding onto, and Sam realized that was why he was holding them so closely—so he could hang on to the smell.

"And then I woke up, really fast and kind of frantic, like when I have a flashback, and I just had to make them," he continued. "They just sort of flashed into my brain, and I was afraid if I didn't do it, I'd forget how."

"So, you made cookies and then fell back asleep?" Sam asked.

"I guess," Bucky said, not looking too sure about that part. The way he was still holding on to the cookies and the fact that they'd been on the couch with him made Sam wonder if he'd fallen asleep hugging the container, breathing in that cinnamon-sugar smell that reminded him of home. That was, well, that was a pretty adorable image, actually.

"Well, they turned out great," Sam assured him. Better than his Nana's, actually, though he would never say that out loud. Her ghost might appear in the kitchen and smack him with a rolling pin.

"Thanks," Bucky said happily. He seemed to realize the affectionate way he was cradling the cookies, then flushed a little bit and set them down on the counter. "I know it seems kind of silly," he said. "But, Sam, I've never…I've never remembered anything this _big_ before. Everything…everything comes in little snaps and flashes, and I have to try to piece it all together, and sometimes I can make something big out of it, but this one came all finished and complete and everything all together. Like," he explained. "I smelled these cookies, right? But then, I remembered how to make them. Like, the whole recipe, and that's kind of a lot, you know? But then I could also…" He trailed off, smiling. "I could close my eyes, and I was back in my apartment, and my ma was in the kitchen, making these cookies and wearing this blue apron with, with pink flowers on it that she always wore. And my pop was in the living room, trying to untangle the Christmas lights and swearing at them because he was just tangling them more. And Becky was…she was trying to steal a spoonful of the cinnamon sugar mix out of the bowl, and I was holding it up over my head so she couldn't reach it and she was climbing up me trying to get at it. And I set the bowl down real fast and grabbed her and hugged her, and she made this funny little squeaky noise and hugged me back."

Bucky's eyes were glistening as he spoke, and Sam found himself a little choked up listening to him relay this soft, warm, happy little memory that he'd found.

"It was a real memory, Sam," Bucky said, his voice cracking just a little bit. "A real, finished memory, with all the pieces—all the smells and sounds and feelings and everything. I didn't—" His voice caught in his throat. "I didn't think I could do that anymore."

Sam stepped around the counter and threw his arms around Bucky. He still didn't know him super-well, and Steve was usually the one who handled the physical contact in these situations, but this was a moment for a hug if Sam ever saw one. Bucky stiffened a little in surprise at the gesture, then reached his arms out and hugged him back.

"I've got real memories, Sam," he whispered into his shoulder. "They're real, and I'm, I'm in them, and…" He sniffed. "I'm a real person." The joy in that little whisper just about broke Sam's heart. Despite all the progress he was making, Sam knew how much he still struggled to believe that.

"Yeah," Sam said. "You are." He clasped him a little more tightly, then let him go. "You really are."

Bucky smiled, and it was a little smile, but it was one that was truly, deeply content. He picked up the container of cookies and took one out, inhaling the sweet cinnamon smell deeply before taking a bite, then he held the container out to Sam in invitation.

"So," Sam asked, picking up another cookie and taking a bite. "Your mom made these a lot, huh?" Bucky sometimes forgot things after he remembered them, and though this one sounded like it was sticking, pulling more little details out might help solidify it.

"Yeah," Bucky agreed. "Only at Christmas time, though. She wouldn't make any Christmas foods before the first of December. But during December, as soon as we ate them all, she'd make more. This is…" He tapped the container. "This is what Christmas smells like to me."

"Well, you know," Sam said. "They say your sense of smell is one of the strongest triggers for memories."

"Really? I didn't know that." Bucky pursed his lips thoughtfully.

Sam made a mental note to ask Steve about smells that might help jog some memories. He wondered what the 40's smelled like. "You know," he said, reaching for another cookie. "My dad used to swear at the Christmas lights too. One year, he got so mad at them that he just gave up and hung the tangled-up knot in the window."

Bucky laughed. "Really?"

"Scout's honor."

Bucky chuckled. "My pop threw them off the porch one year. Usually, he'd work on 'em for a while, and then give up and wait until Steve came over and make him do it—he had little fingers, you know, and he was good at puzzles and stuff. He always got 'em undone eventually. Ma always gave him extra cookies when he was done." He smiled. "Becky had little fingers too, but she'd tangle the lights up worse than Pop did."

He seemed to be on a pretty good roll here, so Sam decided to forgo his run for a stroll down memory lane. He fished another errant eggshell out of the coffee pot, gave it a quick rinse, and started some coffee brewing. A few gently probing questions found Bucky telling him about some of the other things his mom used to bake special for Christmas. Trying to see what else he could spark, Sam mentioned his own sister and how she was determined to make him socks after she learned how to knit—it took her four Christmases to get him a pair that fit his feet, and Bucky laughed and remembered a scarf his sister made him once that was long enough he could wrap up like a mummy in it.

They sat there for a while, trading Christmas memories back and forth, and the fact that Bucky didn't have a firm grip on the chronological order of his memories didn't seem to bother him much. He was just so glad they were there, surprised delight glowing on his face each time he shared something new. Sam, for his part, was feeling that warm fuzzy glow too. He was always so proud when one of the people he counseled had some kind of breakthrough—he knew the kinds of things they struggled with and how hard they worked, and this was that awesome feeling multiplied by ten. Because Bucky wasn't someone who came to Sam once a week for help—he was someone who lived with him, whose battles Sam was right in the middle of all the time. He was Sam's friend. This was a huge victory for him. And Sam was happy for him.

When the stories came to an end, Sam leaned back in his chair, content. He drank down the last of his coffee, then looked back over his shoulder into the kitchen. "Okay," he said, still smiling so Bucky would know he wasn't mad. "I gotta ask…Is this how your mom made cookies?" He pointed to the mess in the kitchen, and Bucky's gaze followed his finger, confused at first, but then he laughed.

"No," he said, cheeks flushing a little, but smiling. "If she saw this, she would whack me with a spatula. Don't worry, I will clean it up. I can do it right now if you want," he said, starting to rise from his chair.

"No, no," Sam said, gesturing for him to sit back down. "It's cool. You can get to it when you get to it. I just…" He shook his head and chuckled. "How is it physically possible to make cookies and get cookie dough on the ceiling fan?"

Bucky looked up. "Huh." A smear of gooey dough streaked across one of the blades, sugar crystals sparkling in the light. "I don't know," he said at last. "I do remember being kind of frantic about getting it right, but I don't…entirely remember all of the actual making of the cookies." He looked around the kitchen, as if truly seeing the mess for the first time. "I'm not actually sure how this happened."

Sam chuckled. "Well, considering all the memories it sounds like it unlocked, I'd say it was worth it." He reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. He really wasn't mad about the mess, but he had still tried to be really careful about the way he asked about it. Bucky was doing so well this morning, and he would have hated to bring that all down and freak him out by making him think he was in trouble. He smirked. "I'm really curious about the eggshell in the coffee pot, though."

Bucky blushed a little, but he picked up on Sam's playful tone and just shrugged and smiled in response.

A thumping noise and the sound of a door shutting came from the hallway. "Steve's up," Sam remarked. "Sounds like he only ran into the wall once." That got another smile out of Bucky. They both got a kick out of Steve's less than stellar early morning equilibrium.

Steve emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, able to walk in a straight line as he entered the kitchen. "Morning, guys," he said, looking a little surprised to see them both there. "No run today?" he asked Sam.

"It was cold," Sam said, not wanting to make Bucky feel as though he'd messed with his routine. "Didn't feel like it."

Steve nodded, turned to the kitchen and stopped. "Um…"

"Sorry, that was me," Bucky said. "But, Steve, look!" He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the container of cookies that was still sitting on the counter. "I made these," he said proudly. "I remembered how, and I made them. Would you…" A tiny nervous note that hadn't been there before crept into his question. "Will you try one?"

"Sure," Steve said, picking up a cookie and taking a larger first bite than Sam had. "Oh, wow."

"Are they right?" Bucky asked uncertainly, and Sam suddenly understood where that anxious note in his voice had come from—Sam may have thought the cookies were delicious, but only Steve could verify if they tasted like Mrs. Barnes'.

"Buck, these are amazing!" Steve declared, reaching into the container eagerly for another one. "Oh, man, what was it, 1942 the last time I tasted one of these? This is just like your ma used to make!"

"Really?" Bucky asked, his face lighting up.

"Mm-hmm," Steve agreed. "I feel like I should be sitting on your living room floor untangling your pop's Christmas lights."

Bucky was beaming.

"I don't know if you…" Steve began.

"I remember that," Bucky said, hugging the box of cookies again as his smile grew wider.

"You do?" Steve asked, surprised, but smiling.

"I do," Bucky confirmed. "Steve, I remembered all kinds of things. Me and Sam were talking, and it just kept…" He smiled happily. "Steve, I remember Christmas."

Steve shot a grateful smile at Sam, then grinned back warmly at Bucky. "That's great, Buck."

"Why don't you tell him what you found?" Sam suggested. He knew Steve was just happy Bucky was remembering, but he also knew he'd been working so hard with him since he came back, trying to help him remember _anything_. This was a victory he and Bucky should share.

"Yeah," Bucky said eagerly, sitting back down at the table and tucking his feet up into his chair. "Okay."

"Great," Steve said, grinning wider. Sam could tell that he'd wanted to know so badly, but he also knew he was really working on not pushing Bucky to share more than he was comfortable with.

Sam nodded, clapping Bucky on the shoulder as he made to go. "I'm gonna go take a shower," he said, leaving them to have their moment. He nodded at Steve. "Coffee should still be warm if you want some."

Steve nodded and got up to get a clean cup out of the dishwasher that none of them had emptied last night. Sam moved back down the hall, chuckling to himself when he heard Steve ask, "Why are there cinnamon sticks in the dishwasher?"

* * *


	25. Let's-a Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Another fun little fluffy one, with guest appearances from Thor, T'Challa and Clint. Bucky's more settled at this point, but not going on missions yet. The version of Mario Kart they're playing, in case you're curious, is the N64 one. Because that's the best one.

* * *

Steve fished in the side of his go-bag for his keys, trying to make out the voices coming through the apartment door. Sam shouldn't be home from work yet—did Bucky have company? That would be, well, that would be unusual, but good for him if he did.

Steve got the door open and almost dropped his bag in surprise at the sound of Thor bellowing from his living room, "Get out of my way, you wretched aquatic fowl!"

"Dude, we've been over this," came Barton's voice much more calmly. "It's called a penguin."

"I care not!" barked Thor. "It shall die at my hands if it does not remove itself from my path at once!"

Curious, Steve moved into the hallway, the sound of the door shutting behind him masked by a chorus of groans and a victorious laugh. "Ha, ha! Make way for the King of Wakanda!" T'Challa declared.

Steve dropped his bag and stepped into the kitchen. In the living room on the other side of the kitchen counter sat Clint, Thor, and T'Challa crammed onto the couch, while Bucky was over in his favorite armchair. A shower of pixelated fireworks was exploding across the TV screen. Looked like they were playing some kind of video game.

"I hate you," Clint said to T'Challa with a huff.

"It is not my fault you cannot steer, my friend," T'Challa said with a chuckle.

"After a display like that, I don't know that they should let you fly the Quinjet anymore," Bucky said, then ducked as a couch cushion came flying at his head.

"Hey, guys," Steve said. "How's it going?"

"Hey, Steve!" Bucky replied. "How was—"

"Silence! The next race begins!" Thor said.

"Crap!" Bucky said, snapping his eyes back to the screen.

Steve chuckled, and after watching a few seconds of flying bananas and turtle shells, he realized they were playing Mario Kart. He knew this one. After the Battle of New York, he'd stayed in New York for a while before moving down to D.C. with S.H.I.E.L.D., and Clint had taught him how to play when he was teaching him things about the 21st Century. Looked like he was doing the same for Bucky.

Thunder and lightning flashed across the screen and Thor laughed triumphantly as everyone else's characters shrank. "Behold the God of Thunder!" he roared.

"Oh, that's low, man," Bucky complained as Thor's driver zipped over the top of Bucky's, smashing him into the ground.

"Not as low as you are right now," Clint giggled, zipping by as Bucky's character popped back up and slamming into his side, sending him flying into the lake.

"I invite you into my home, and this is how you treat me?" Bucky growled as his driver was fished out of the water and returned to the track, significantly behind the rest of the group. "So, how was the mission?" he asked Steve as the race came to an end and Thor jumped up to do a little victory dance.

"Good," Steve replied. "Looks like you've been keeping busy."

"Well, Barton's on his quest to teach me about video games, you know?" Bucky was trying to sound longsuffering, but he invited Clint over every time Steve was gone on a mission. He was really getting into the video game thing, though he was significantly better at some than others. He arched an eyebrow at Steve. "You smell like fish, by the way. I can smell it all the way over here."

"Is that what that is?" T'Challa asked, turning around to look at Steve. "I thought perhaps it was time to empty your trashcan, but I wasn't going to say anything."

"I think what his highness is still too polite to say is go take a shower, Captain," Clint said.

Steve snorted. "Duly noted." The mission had been successful, and no one had gotten hurt, but it hadn't been the most glamorous.

Steve picked up his stuff and headed for the bathroom, chuckling to himself as the final leg of the race started and Thor wondered, "This game was intended for children, was it not? Why then is this race taking place in Hell?"

T'Challa laughed so hard Steve could hear him spit out his drink, and Bucky sighed dramatically. "It's not Hell, man, it's some kind of…lava castle or something. Look, see the dinosaur statue? And look, a nice little manicured garden inside. They don't have fancy topiaries in Hell."

"They could do with some walls around these roads, though," Clint said. "Ha! Eat lava, Thunder-Boy!"

The noise of the shower starting drowned out the rest of Thor's declaration that Clint was going to pay dearly for that, and Steve laughed again.

They were still going when he got out, and Steve grabbed a soda and sank down into his favorite chair to watch, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "I should not like to threaten you, Captain," T'Challa said. "Since we are in your home and you are merely a spectator. But your feet are rather large and they are blocking my view of the track."

"Sorry," Steve said, drawing his feet back.

"Where were these manners when you were shoving my car off the bridge?" Thor wondered.

T'Challa shrugged. "As I said, he is merely spectating. There is no need for unkind words. You, on the other hand…" He paused long enough to veer his car to the right, grab an item box, and launch a barrage of red shells at Thor's car. "Well," he said with a grin as the shells hit home one after the other, knocking the gorilla and his cart into the shrubbery and flipping him around, costing Thor precious seconds as he tried to reorient his vehicle. "This is war, is it not?"

Thor grinned. "Indeed. And the vengeance of the God of Thunder shall be swift."

"Yeah!" Clint enthused, launching a series of explosions at one of the computer characters. "Suck it, Peach!"

"You talk that way to a lady, Barton?" Bucky asked, flinging a couple of banana peels into the melee as he zipped past it.

"She is no lady," Thor growled. "That vile demoness is a plague upon this game. Do your worst to her, Barton."

Steve watched the little cars zip around the haunted wharf, smiling to himself as he noticed the different styles his friends used to try to win. Thor was like a sledgehammer, the large gorilla driving his car barreling through everyone in his way. T'Challa was playing as the little mushroom guy, zipping in and out and using speed to his advantage, appearing as if from nowhere to attack. Clint was Mario, and seemed to favor attacking the other players over speed—he wielded banana peels and turtle shells with more precision than should have been possible with the limits of the joystick. Bucky was the little green dinosaur, and it was hard to pin down a style for him—one moment he was racing ahead, the next attacking everyone in sight, the next zipping through secret passages and then plowing through the crowd of racers. He was more adaptable than he was picking any one style of play, and, well, that was really Bucky's style wasn't it?

"Oh, yeah, come at me," Bucky taunted, seeing Clint's car coming up in the corner of his screen.

"No, no, no!" Clint yelled, seeing too late that Bucky was trailing a series of green shells behind him, desperately trying to get out of the way and failing.

"Ha, ha, ha!" Bucky laughed shooting up into first place.

"You know they say pride goes before a fall, my friend," Thor said, zipping onto the screen in a shower of sparkles and sending Bucky flying over the railing into the water. "Oh, and that is quite a fall, is it not?" he said with a smirk.

"You watch yourself, buddy," Bucky warned. "I've got some turtle shells with your name on them."

Bucky did manage to knock Thor out of place, pulling into first in the final seconds of the race.

"Laugh now," Clint said as the rankings flashed on the screen. "Rainbow Road is next. This is where I get my own back." Steve had a sudden flashback to when Clint had taught him how to play as the screen panned over the colorful track. If none of the other guys had done this level before, Clint was about to jump up several ranks on the scoreboard.

"What sort of hell is this?" T'Challa asked as, only seconds into the race, he and Thor were both flying off the sides of the track and falling.

"No, no, no, aaah!" Bucky yelled, joining them in their tumble into space. "Who the hell builds a road in space with no safety rails?!"

"Ha, ha, ha!" Clint laughed maniacally. "Watch me fly, boys. Watch me fly!" He zipped through the course with practiced ease, while the rest of them struggled to stay on the track as it curved and veered sharply.

"How long is this stupid thing?" Bucky asked, still not having completed his first lap.

"If the race is unending, it is just as well, for it shall give me time to catch you, Barton," Thor said.

"From all the way back there?" Clint scoffed. "Bring it."

T'Challa, Bucky and Thor all exchanged glances. "Let's," Bucky said dangerously. The three of them stopped attacking each other and focused on staying on the track and catching up to Barton. Once they had him in sight, they focused all their fire on him.

"No fair!" Clint complained. "You can't gang up on me!"

"I believe we are," T'Challa said. "But it shouldn't concern you, seeing as you're 'flying' after all."

"I will break you," Clint growled, and the battle began in earnest.

The four of them did eventually come brawling across the finish line with Clint in the lead, but just barely. Though he'd won this race, he'd fared poorly enough in some of the others that his overall ranking was third, with T'Challa in front of him and Bucky on top. Bucky jumped to his feet to mimic Thor's victory dance.

"A match well fought," Thor declared, sinking back into the sofa. He looked over to where Steve was sitting and offered him his controller. "Would you like a turn, Captain?"

"Oh, no, I don't want to take your spot," Steve protested.

"No, it's alright. I believe the convention is 'loser walks'," Thor said, still holding out the controller. "See if perhaps you can bring Barnes' head back down to earth," he finished with a smile.

Bucky snorted. "What, Steve? Please, even you could beat him."

"You know what? Why not?" Steve said, taking the control from Thor with a smile.

Bucky arched a skeptical eyebrow. "You're actually going to play a video game?"

"Sure. It looks like fun," Steve said. "So, I was watching you guys—this one makes it go, right?" he asked, pointing to the joystick. Bucky snorted again as Thor helpfully explained the controls to Steve. Clint was watching suspiciously—he knew Steve knew how to do this, but he caught the look Steve shot him and didn't say anything.

"Should we start with an easy one for you, Stevie?" Bucky asked, once they were all ready.

"Pick whatever track you think is best," Steve said coolly. "And where is all this disdain for me playing video games coming from?"

"From every time we try to play something with Sam," Bucky replied. "You're terrible."

"I'm terrible at Call of Duty," Steve allowed. "What makes you think I'm bad at this?"

"I'm just saying, if you can't make a guy walk straight, what makes you think you can drive a car?"

Steve shrugged, as if conceding a point. "May as well give it a shot though, right?"

The race began, and Steve started zipping around the track with ease. It had been a while since he'd played this, but, well, there'd been a point where he'd been laid up in Stark Tower with a fractured femur, and Clint had come over a lot with his Nintendo to keep him company. He knew every twist and turn of the map—almost muscle memory at this point—as well as the best way to use the weapons available to him.

"Oh, ho, ho!" T'Challa laughed. "It would appear you have not been entirely honest with us, Captain," he said gleefully, clearly relishing the challenge.

"What the hell is this, Steve?" Bucky demanded as Steve pummeled him with a host of red shells before unleashing lightning bolts across the track.

"This is the part where you got played, Barnes," Clint chuckled. "Hey! Out of the way!" he snapped at an oncoming truck.

"Oh, did I not mention?" Steve asked innocently. He grabbed himself a blinking star, then knocked two trucks, Bucky, and T'Challa out of his way before grabbing a mushroom and zipping around to start the third lap. "I'm awesome."

The couch shook as Thor laughed merrily to himself. "Excellent," he said.

Bucky scowled from across the room. "Alright. You're going down, punk," he said.

Steve laughed, dodging out of the way of the green shell Bucky fired at him. "Bring it on, jerk," he declared happily. "You're gonna have to catch me first."

* * *


	26. A Good Night's Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's set a month or so after Bucky's return, and he's having trouble sleeping. Seems angsty at first, but doesn't stay that way.

* * *

Steve woke up to a panicked yell, and he was on his feet and halfway across the hall before his brain had entirely registered that it was Bucky screaming. Bucky was curled up in an agitated tangle of sheets at the head of his bed, and he yelled again and lurched over to the side.

"Bucky?" Steve said. "Bucky, wake up," he said when Bucky didn't respond. He hated standing over here by the door and calling to his friend, but he'd learned the hard way that Bucky didn't always know where he was or what was going on when he woke up from dreams like this. Even if Steve didn't mind taking the hit, Bucky felt awful about it and Steve didn't want to do that to him. "Bucky!" he said louder.

Bucky gasped and his eyes snapped open, and he lashed out at the air with what would have been a bone-shattering left hook.

"Buck?" Steve asked.

Bucky's eyes shot over in Steve's direction, and Steve could see panic in the steel blue slowly swirling back into awareness and clarity. "Steve?" Bucky whispered.

Steve took that as his cue to move closer, and crossed Bucky's room in a couple of steps to sit on the side of the bed. "Yeah, Buck," he said. "I'm here." He'd also learned the hard way that he needed to leave first physical contact up to Bucky, but tonight Bucky grabbed him before he'd sat all the way down. "Bad one, huh?" Steve said sadly, wrapping his arms tight around his friend.

For several minutes, Bucky just sat there and shook. Finally, not raising his head, he whispered into Steve's shoulder, "Are you really here?"

"I'm really here," Steve replied. He hugged him a little tighter. "Right here."

"Where am I?" Bucky whispered.

"You're home, Buck," Steve said. "It's 2014, and you're in New York. This is your room and this is our apartment."

A brief silence. "I don't remember that."

"That's okay," Steve said, patting him on the back of the head. "You're safe." If Bucky didn't know anything else right now, he could at least know that.

"Can he find me?" Bucky asked so quietly that Steve wouldn't have caught it without his enhanced hearing.

"Nope," Steve said firmly, even though he wasn't sure which 'he' Bucky was referring to. "Zola's been dead for a long time. Pierce is dead. Hydra's gone." That ought to cover all the bases. "They can't find you. You're safe," he said again.

Bucky nodded, but he still didn't look up, and Steve just held on to him. He looked up briefly as his eye caught Sam moving past the door, but didn't give it much thought beyond noticing it. Bucky was still shaking, so Steve hugged him a little tighter, reaching one hand up to cradle protectively around his head, and started talking softly.

"Remember that time we found that little kitten in an alley?" he asked, not expecting an answer and not getting one. He wasn't talking to get an answer, or even to say anything in particular, but just to give Bucky something to listen to that would distract him from whatever horror had come screaming into his head tonight. The kitten story was just what popped into his head.

"I think we were in third grade," he went on. "And we found the little guy in a box. I wanted to call him Tiger because he was orange, but you said we should call him Steve because he was so little and skinny. We went with Tiger, by the way…"

He kept talking, detailing their efforts to nurse the abandoned little kitten back to health. Bucky wasn't responding at all, so Steve didn't know how much attention he was paying, but that wasn't really the point. He'd stopped shaking, so that was good.

The door creaked open a little wider, and a plastic laundry basket came sliding across the floor. The door shut again, but Steve smiled. Bucky had discovered that he liked the smell of laundry fresh out of the dryer, and he had a tendency to curl up with the clean towels and sheets he was supposed to be folding and take a nap. Sam teased him about this cat-like behavior, but he'd started getting up when Bucky had a particularly loud nightmare and tossing a few towels into the dryer. Once they were warm and fluffy and clean-smelling, he'd slide the basket full of them into Bucky's room and go back to bed. Bucky felt bad enough about bothering everyone in the middle of the night like this, so by not coming into the room, Sam was saving him a little bit of embarrassment. Actually, Steve wasn't even sure if Bucky knew Sam was doing this—no one ever said anything about it.

It did help, though, so Steve shifted a little bit and reached down to pick up a couple of the towels. He laid one over Bucky's pillow and just sort of held the other one in his hand while he went back to hugging Bucky. He could feel the muscles of Bucky's shoulders slowly unclenching until he finally moved to sit up away from Steve. There was some embarrassment in his eyes, but there was clarity there now too, so Steve smiled.

"You okay?" he asked gently.

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. Sorry." He said that every time.

"Don't worry about it," Steve told him. He said that every time too.

Bucky gave him a small, grateful smile. "Thanks."

Steve handed him the towel, and he shifted back to lie down, holding onto the towel where he could still smell it. Steve waited a minute, taking his lead from Bucky as to whether he was ready for Steve to leave or not.

"Um, so what…what happened with the cat?" Bucky asked softly.

Steve smiled and finished the story. Bucky wasn't asleep when he finished—he usually wasn't—but he looked calmer now, and he nodded his thanks to Steve. Steve got up, picked up another towel and placed it on the bed next to Bucky, then moved for the door. "Night, Buck," he said.

"G'night, Steve," Bucky mumbled.

* * *

It took a minute or two before Bucky realized Sam was talking to him. Actually, it took him a minute or two to notice that Sam had even come into the room. He must have drifted really far. His handlers would have beaten the hell out of him for letting his guard down like that.

"I'm sorry," Bucky said, shaking his head and pulling himself back to the present. "What did you say?" He still didn't like asking people to repeat themselves, but he knew now he wasn't going to get in trouble for it.

Sam smiled at him sympathetically. "I said that I noticed you've been having trouble sleeping lately. More than usual, anyway."

He really had. That was probably why he was having trouble paying attention to things. Sam's tone told him that he wasn't upset—he sounded more worried than mad—but Bucky still cringed inwardly. Sometimes Bucky handled his nightmares on his own, but sometimes he couldn't. He knew he made a lot of noise, and Steve would come in and sit with him and hold on to him, but by unspoken agreement, Sam didn't involve himself in those late-night nightmare sessions. He knew Bucky was more comfortable with Steve than he was with him, and so the two of them didn't talk about it—though Bucky suspected Sam was behind the post-nightmare fresh towels that had been appearing in his room lately. He appreciated that, but it was still pretty hands-off. Bucky must have been making a lot more noise than usual for Sam to say something.

"Sorry," Bucky said. "I don't mean to keep waking you up."

"No, no, that's not what this is about," Sam said. "I'm not mad about that. I mean, I might be if you were just getting up and yelling in the middle of the night for the hell of it, but I highly doubt that's what you want to be doing."

Bucky shook his head, not sure how else to respond to that.

"And it's not all that unusual, you know? People who have been through some crap, trouble sleeping is a pretty common thing. I see it a lot with folks down at the V.A."

"Uh huh," Bucky said, appreciating what Sam was trying to say about Bucky not being some freakish edge case, but not sure where this was going.

"And there's different ways they try to deal with it," Sam went on. "I'm guessing sleeping pills aren't really up your alley?"

"No," Bucky said quickly. "No, no, I—" After all the mind-altering treatments, sedatives and drugs Hydra would use on him, the thought of taking any more of them sent a wave of nausea rolling through his stomach. "No," he said again, shifting farther back in his chair.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, it's okay," Sam said, holding up his hands. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to suggest you should. I shouldn't have led with that."

"Oh," Bucky said. He felt suddenly embarrassed about how tightly he'd curled up in the chair, like he was trying to get away from Sam. He knew Sam didn't want to hurt him. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Sam said with a smile. "What I should have started with was, I've been thinking through some of the stuff I know other people do to try to sleep to try to find something that might help you."

Bucky just managed to stop himself from asking why Sam would do that. He'd been doing it already, and he'd answered that question last week anyway with the thing with the puppies—Bucky was still just having trouble wrapping his head around people being nice to him.

"So, I got you something," Sam finished, reaching down to the side of the couch and picking up a shopping bag.

"You…" Bucky blinked in surprise. "You got me something?"

"Yeah," Sam said, jiggling the bag in his hand, indicating that Bucky should take it.

Bucky accepted the bag gingerly. It was heavier than it looked like it should be. "You got me something?" he repeated. "Like…like a gift?" He'd gotten a lot of stuff since he came to live with Steve and Sam. Steve had gotten him a lot of stuff, and it had been things he'd needed, like clothes or a toothbrush, and he supposed that was a gift too, but…that was different. Steve was his friend and Steve was trying to help him. Sam was…This was…unexpected.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, like a gift. That okay?"

Bucky considered. "I…Yeah. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Sam said. His smile widened. "You might want to open it, though."

"Oh. Right." Bucky opened the bag to see a fold of dark red material. He pulled it out, and it unfolded into his lap. It was a blanket. It was weirdly heavy for a blanket, but it was really nice and soft.

"It's a weighted blanket," Sam explained. "It's…There's a lot of science you could get into, but the idea is that it puts this light pressure on you, supposed to make you feel secure and get your brain to release calming chemicals and stuff like that."

Bucky eyed the blanket skeptically. That sounded like a lot for a piece of fabric.

Sam chuckled again. "It's not a magic blanket. Not a cure-all or anything. It's basically…I don't know, kind of like getting a hug. I thought it might help you get to sleep easier. If nothing else, it'll keep you warm," he added. "Winter's starting to kick into gear, and I know you don't like being cold."

Bucky nodded. Even if this science blanket of Sam's didn't work, it _would_ keep him warm. And it was really soft. Bucky liked soft things. He smiled at Sam. "Thank you. That's really thoughtful. I…Thanks."

"You're welcome," Sam said again, and he smiled and patted Bucky once on the shoulder as he stood up and moved to the kitchen.

Bucky examined the blanket a little more closely. He ran his fingers across it, then looped it around his back and wrapped it around his shoulders. Oh. He leaned back into the chair cushions and tugged the blanket a little more securely around himself. Oh, that was nice. Maybe Sam was on to something here.

* * *

Sam had been wracking his brains for a while now, trying to come up with an idea that would help Bucky get some sleep. There may have been a little bit of selfishness behind it—it was hard to get a good night's sleep when the guy two rooms down started screaming bloody murder at two in the morning—but for the most part, he just wanted to help. Not being able to sleep sucked. It messed with your emotions and messed with your brain, and it was hard to make any kind of recovery progress with all that going on. Sam saw it all the time at work. Hell, he'd been through it himself, even before he'd lost Riley. He got it. And he hated to see anyone else have to suffer through it.

It was his turn to make dinner tonight, so he emptied out the dishwasher and got started on the food. Bucky was still in the living room, and Sam pretended not to notice him experimenting with his new blanket so he wouldn't get self-conscious. He focused his attention on dinner, and had momentarily forgotten about Bucky until it was all in the oven and he looked over into the living room. He grinned.

"Hey, I'm—" Steve called from the front door, back from his meeting with Tony.

"Ssh!" Sam hissed, cutting him off.

"What?" Steve asked, confused, but quieter.

Sam nodded across the kitchen counter in response, and Steve smiled as his eyes followed the gesture. Bucky had curled up into a little ball, nestling down into the big soft cushions of the armchair. His new blanket was wrapped around him, covering every inch of him except for a tiny part of his face where his nose stuck out so he could breathe. He was fast asleep.

"Looks like your blanket idea worked," Steve said.

"Guess so," Sam agreed.

They ate dinner quietly, so as not to wake Bucky, then decided if he was sleeping well in the chair, to just let him sleep. Sam went to bed a little while later, and he woke up in the morning after a quiet night. Bucky had gotten up and moved to his room at some point, but he came padding in to the kitchen while Sam was getting breakfast. The hair sticking out every which way and the blanket wrapped around him like a cape gave him the air of a sleepy little kid, but he looked a little better rested than he had been the past several days.

"Sleep alright?" Sam asked, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

"Yeah," Bucky said. "You were right—it didn't keep me from having nightmares or anything, but…" He shrugged. "I actually managed to go back to sleep afterwards, so…I don't know, it did something." He gave Sam a little smile, slightly embarrassed, but genuine. "Thank you. It, it means a lot to me that I can…Well, and that you would…Thank you."

Sam clapped him warmly on the shoulder. "Anytime, man. Glad I could help."

* * *

_That's all I've got for now, but I may add more chapters later on if they occur to me. Thanks for following along!_


End file.
